


Who He Is

by sfumatosoup



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: And some other stuff too, Arthur's desk gets some action, Banter, Bespoke Suits, Copious Angst, Courtship, Desperation, Eggsy as Galahad, Eggsy has a bit of an identity crisis, Eggsy is not okay, Eggsy is smitten and confused, Eggsy's a fragile teacup, Eventual Smut, Everyone is such a drama llama, Exasperated Merlin, Falling In Love, Friendship is Magic, Harry is not really dead, Harry is undercover, Love Confessions, M/M, Masturbation, Mentor/Protégé, Merlin/Tristan, Mutual Pining, No love triangles though, Pining, Pure Hartwin, Romance, Romantic Gestures, Roxy Is a Good Bro, Slow Burn, Smut, Sugar Daddy Harry, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unrequited Merlin/Harry, Voyeurism, adoration, flirtation, mutual obsession, my dear boy, so much pining, some references of past abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-06-07 20:15:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 66,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6822373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sfumatosoup/pseuds/sfumatosoup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is deep undercover. He needs to keep it this way. Meanwhile, Eggsy is not taking his mentor's death well. Also, he inherits Harry's entire estate and moves into Harry's house. </p><p>Harry keeps an eye on him remotely from his home security system. It's not quite healthy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

In the immediate wake of V-day, there is a mess to clean up. 

There are riots, revolts and coups worldwide. Suddenly sans their heads of state, entire nations are thrown into turmoil. Dangerous power vacuums emerge from the wreckage.

Governments are toppled. Long standing industrial empires are leveled to the ground. The stock market crashes from New York to Shanghai.

Weaker countries collapse into feudalism and sectarian warfare as their neighbors go into lock down. Militias spring out of the unfolding anarchy joining arms with the military to secure their borders.

The power-grids stutter. The lights flicker.

It's pandemonium. It's Armageddon.

And then, almost two weeks later, as if overnight, order restores itself (or at least is choreographed into effect from behind the scenes). It's a quick rebound. There is a frenzy of elections. Newly appointed leaders rein in the leftover chaos. The dead are buried and everyone returns to work. The children are sent back to school. The media is, of course, a hailstorm of rumours, conspiracy theories and religious nutters, but not before long, even regularly scheduled programming resumes.

Nobody knows who to thank so they don't. Eurovision is back on and everyone gathers around the telly with a collective sigh of relief.

Kingsmen and its compatriots reorganize. There is an internal audit. No one is immune. Everything is investigated. The loose ends are snipped, the benefactors appeased and the losses are tallied, toasted to and replaced. The operation is as efficient as it is unapologetic.

Eggsy is as efficient as he is unapologetic. He delivers one effortlessly ruthless, utterly brutal, cold-blooded bloodbath after another and Merlin thinks he might be the most effective weapon Kingsmen has ever been fortunate enough to have on their side. Harry had elevated violence to an art form that day in the church but this boy's formidable talent could easily give his predecessor a run for his money.

“ _ I'm here to kick ass and chew bubblegum,”  _ Merlin thinks, dumbstruck as he watches the agent take out a dozen men with only a third of a clip, “ _ And I'm all out of bubblegum.”  _ There are times when all he can do is push back in his seat and stare agape at his monitor.

When Eggsy returns home it's with a sizable kill-count and dead eyes. There is no dispute when he takes Galahad's seat at the table as if it were always his. No one dares look askance at his right to.

The vacant spot at the helm falls on Merlin. It's a crown of thorns, but with Arthur's obvious successor unavailable, he's stuck being the most qualified candidate. It's bloody inconvenient. He takes on the mantle, dusts it off and wears it because he has to, but he keeps his own damn name.

“I expect all of you to still refer to me as Merlin, are we clear?”

There are a few exchanged looks. None of them are discreet and all of them are confused.

“Is this appointment not permanent? Are we to expect another Arthur?” Gawain asks, his question shrewd and too close to the truth.

“Or the _ circus _ is too stingy to promote any of the other techs,” Kay suggests blandly.

Bors grins. “Settle down there,  _ Beggar Man." _

“Does this mean we all get two secret-spy code names?” Lancelot asks hopefully. 

“What on earth are all of you on about?” Gareth demands, utterly perplexed and looking quite beside himself to be left out of the joke. 

“I think I should be  _ Soldier, _ ” Lancelot decides.  __

“Well, Merlin, I vote we call you  _ 'Control'.  _ It's apt, isn't it?” Percival asks, looking around at the others for support.

Merlin scowls. “This is not a democracy. You do not get to vote on this.”

“We could call you 'M',” Percival offers as a compromise, terrible at hiding his smirk as he shares a sideways glance with Bors. 

Merlin is less impressed. “What a revelation. I had no idea the lot of you were so literate.”

They unanimously decide on 'M' despite his disapproval. Merlin plots his revenge behind his teacup.

The next day, when Percival opens his assignment folder, on top of the dossier is clipped a picture of himself in a compromising position with an old honeypot mark. The angle is less than flattering.

Later, he recounts the story to Harry. “Did the picture happen to find its way into the other's folders as well?” he asks, amused.

Merlin grins. “I'm a professional.”  _ What do you think? _

Harry laughs and the sound of it gladdens him.

Percival reverts back to calling him Merlin after that and the rest of the agents follow suit, duly warned. Still, working two jobs and one he particularly dislikes is a grueling task.

Harry reminds him it's rude to speak ill of the dead, so when he curses Harry, it's behind closed doors.

“I have no inclination for this,” he complains, nursing a wretched headache with a finger of scotch.

“The inconvenience is only a temporary one,” Harry consoles, his understanding nod a pixelated blur in the webcam.

They both know he's not entirely sure of that. He may have survived a bullet close-range, but that was luck—luck and the highest grade, bullet proof lenses. His new pair of eyeglasses showcase the brilliant overripe plum of his swollen shut eye and Merlin is still a little amazed he hadn't lost it.

“Macallan 25,” he crisply retorts. “That's what you owe me when you come back.”  _ If you come back, _ he doesn't say out loud. He doesn't need to. The uncertainty suspends between them in all it's jaded reality. They've been around long enough to know better than to hope for the best.

It's best to prepare for the worst.

This is why Merlin is not terribly surprised when he reviews the addendum Harry makes to his will. It's touching and depressing and he feels the smallest twinge of pain in his chest in that place he supposes his heart technically beats.

“I thought you'd be pleased,” Harry defends. “This way you're ensured the bottle regardless.”

The pain in Merlin's chest stabs a little deeper. “I'll need more than a bottle if you return in a body bag,” he grumbles morosely.

“Surely the job isn't that bad.”

He doesn’t know why he says what he says next. It’s utterly revealing and even with Harry, Merlin is always careful to keep his cards close to his chest. 

“It's not the job,” Merlin sighs running a hand down his face. He's tired. 

Harry’s face is at first pinched with concern, and then… and then well. It’s terribly fond and Merlin has no idea what to do with that. 

“Then what is it, my dear?”

He'd spell it out flatly if he wasn't so utterly 'emotionally constipated'–Harry has accused him of being so on more than one occasion. 

“Don’t call me that. You know I loathe endearments.”

Harry doesn’t apologize, he just smiles at him with one of his magnanimous, know-it-all smiles and Merlin honestly does hate him for a split second.

“You are the devil, Harry Hart.”

That damn, secret, impish grin he gives him in return-- the grin he reserves just for Merlin, is back again full force. 

He knows the other man was being intentionally obtuse, but whether it's to spare him or tease him he can't tell. Merlin doesn't have friends. Friends are a liability, but Harry is the nearest he's got, and he'd sooner and more gladly take a bullet for the man than let him take another himself.

Not that he'll ever tell him as much, but Harry isn't an idiot.

“Sod it. I’m going to bed,” Merlin growls, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.  

Harry, for godsake, knows very well what he would have really said: ‘Don’t die, I’ll miss you awfully, come home soon.’ Of course, he’ll never say any of it. 

“Goodnight, old friend,” Harry smiles to Merlin warmly and if being on the receiving end of Harry's warmth thaws Merlin's heart a little and it shows in his cheeks, well, Harry won't tell.

They are very good at keeping secrets. It's their livelihood.

In this case, maintaining the deception is imperative to not only Harry's life, but the future of Kingsman itself.

None of this would be an issue if it weren't for Eggsy. The young man's suffering is trained inward, and Merlin can see it eating him like a cancer. He's not grieving for the loss of his mentor. It's something else. Something far worse that Merlin can't quite put his finger on.

He can't explain it but he can observe it. Merlin has a sharp eye for the subtle nuances of expression. It's why he excels as a handler. It's why Harry has lived to see that distinguished touch of silver at his temples. Of course, Harry's why Merlin's likely balder than a cue ball, but he doesn't begrudge him overly much for it.

Harry had left him with instructions regarding his protege. One of them had been to relocate Eggsy's family out of the estates into a cozy little house in the suburbs. He'd done that. But it's his own guilt that spurs him to remotely engineer Dean's little mishap.

Waking up hungover among 20 kilos of cocaine later, if he wasn't dog meat with a certain hot-tempered, wronged party, he'd certainly be in prison for a very,  _ very  _ long time.

There is an additional promise of another bottle of the Macallan after that.

So yes. The past two weeks have been quite busy for Merlin so when he calls together the meeting, he's impatient for it to be over. It's short and most of the attendees are holograms. Lancelot is grinning at Bors and Percival is shooting them dirty looks across the table, the poor, paranoid bastard. Gawain flickers in and out and bitches about his reception and Lamorak just looks amazed to still be alive for some reason Merlin fears he'll learn of later when he reviews his latest mission footage.

Eggsy meanwhile, is placid and generally unresponsive. Not in that safe, contemplative way, but in a disconnected way that's a little concerning. When the meeting is adjourned, reports are filed and the assignments are distributed respectively. After being debriefed, Merlin submits him for the requisite psych evals.

He's nervous as he awaits the outcome. Desperately understaffed and stretched far too thin, Kingsman needs every able body they've got. For the sake of Merlin's conscience,  _ he  _ needs the lad to pass.

The results ping his inbox an hour later.

Eggsy passes with flying colours. Merlin is bewildered, but relieved as he summons him. In the privacy of his new office, Merlin sits behind his desk and examines the agent seated across from him on the other side with guarded interest. “It appears I've permission to declare you fit for duty,” he reports carefully.

Eggsy bows his head. His eyes are just as guarded, but underneath, there is an eager thirst belying his poise.

“You've proven yourself an invaluable asset to Kingsman, Galahad,” Merlin tells him. Eggsy doesn't flinch at the name as he'd expected he might however he does pick up on the unspoken 'but' in his statement. His hands, neatly folded in his lap clench a little, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Merlin clears his throat. “That being said, although I have every intention of sending you back into the field, you are still due time off.”

“I don't need it,” Eggsy remarks evenly.

“Even so, it is required.”

Eggsy's exasperation turns down the corners of his mouth into the smallest frown of irritation and Merlin almost wishes for the old petulant eye-roll.

“Your down time, however, does not have to be entirely unproductive.”

Eggsy's dull eyes spark with slight interest.

Merlin congratulates himself on finally stirring some emotion from the lad. “If you aren't already aware, Harry made me his executor,” he explains. He waits for him to absorb this information accordingly before continuing.

Eggsy eventually shakes his head. “Don’t care what he left me. Don’t want it.”

“Well, that’s a shame then,” Merlin quips. “Since he made you his heir and all.”   


Eggsy blinks. “Wait, what?”

“Harry appears to have left you everything.” Merlin grins. “Now would you care to know what that entails?”


	2. Chapter 2

Eggsy inherits Harry's entire estate. This includes his residence in Kensington's Stanhope mews and everything he's ever owned. His accounts are set up into a trust, which Eggsy assumes is a precautionary measure to ensure he doesn't go out and blow his whole new fortune on a whim. Since it was pretty clear he'd grown up living hand-to-mouth with no more than a scant, handful of notes in his pocket at a time, his inexperience with financial responsibility would likely have been taken into account, thus, he doesn't bristle at the slight. It wasn't intentional. Eggsy would have done the same were the positions reversed.

In any case, he's already overwhelmed by his generous new salary, but the supplemental monthly stipend he'll be receiving in addition amounts to a sum that's hard to wrap his head around.

“Never seen so many zeroes behind a number in my life,” Eggsy muses.

“Perhaps enough to court a princess, hmm?” Merlin smirks.

Eggsy flushes. That whole misadventure had been an emasculating nightmare. First he couldn't get it up, and then he spent the next half-hour weeping for his dead mentor in her arms.

He can't quite meet Merlin's eyes. “Yeah, um, safe to say I won't be trying that.”

To his relief, Merlin politely doesn't pry further.

In a daze, he's led through the rest of the paperwork. Merlin advises him through the process of apportioning an allowance to keep his Mum comfortable and his sister amply provided for.

“Thanks, by the way.” He doesn't mean it as the afterthought it sounds like, but by the way Merlin is staring at him as if he'd grown a second head, he clearly doesn't take it that way.

“For what?”

“The thing you did for my family while I was gone.”

“Oh,” Merlin utters, surprised, as if he hadn't expected Eggsy to put two-and-two together and he wonders if he should be a little offended. The whole thing's pretty obvious. Really, who else could be to credit for Dean's sudden convenient absence and by extension, his family's fresh start?

Of course, as expected, Merlin shirks his gratitude.

“You were busy, it needed to be addressed and it was,” he replies casually, as if the whole thing's no big deal. He supposes it wouldn't be to Merlin. The man's a fucking magician after all, but still. A little choked up, Eggsy ducks his head.

“I was merely following instruction,” Merlin tells him, and that is was Harry's instruction is pretty heavily implied. Still, Merlin's hard-ass act might convince everyone else, but Eggsy's got a pretty good eye, and he can tell that the man's got a heart of gold. He doesn't doubt for a second he would have still taken it on himself to get involved even if he hadn't been asked to. 

“Don't mean I don't owe you a solid, bruv,” Eggsy tells him and he means it.

Merlin's discomfort is visible in the red of his ears but Eggsy knows that he's a gentleman now and a gentleman would know better than to embarrass either of them by pushing the matter, but regardless, he vows to himself he'll find a way to return the favor someday.

If Harry were in his shoes, he'd know what to do.

“Why me?” Eggsy asks suddenly. “I mean, I get it. Makes sense don't it? Figured he'd owe it to my da and all, makin' sure his family's fixed up,” he explains, swallowing hard. The idea of it sits like a rock in his gut. _'Can't you see that everything I've done has been about trying to repay him?'_

It's always been about that, hasn't it? Eggsy crushes down his resentment before Merlin can call him out on it. “Like, I kinda figured he didn't have no other family. Never mentioned 'em if he did, at any rate.”

“There was no other next of kin, save for a very distant relation,” Merlin confirms. “Though I believe he may have mentioned something of an elderly Aunt at one time, but they had been estranged for some years, didn't particularly see eye-to-eye, so to speak.”

“What do you mean?” Eggsy asks curiously.

“From what I recall, she didn't approve of his 'lifestyle choices'.”

Eggsy feels a spike of cautious hope.

“I suppose he wouldn't have told you,” Merlin grins deviously. “He was technically a viscount.”

“A _what?_ ” Eggsy sputters. “Don't think I heard you right, mate”

“Minor one I'm afraid.”

“You're takin' the piss.”

Merlin pushes the stack of documents across the desk and points a finger to Harry's title. “As you can see, I'm not in fact, 'taking the piss',” he replies. “They were all, historically speaking, rather heavily into politics. He wasn't particularly keen on it and chose to pursue the military instead, much to his family's chagrin.”

Eggsy blinks. “ _Damn_. Knew he was posh n' all, but wouldn't have took him for a blue blood. Guess there was a lot he never told me. Never married though, right?”

Merlin doesn't conceal his amusement. “Appears there _was_ a lot he never told you,” he replies vaguely.

Eggsy feels himself blanch. “ _He was married, too?_ ”

“No,” Merlin confirms taking pity. “He was never married.”

“But, he didn't... you know. There wasn't anyone _else_?” Eggsy asks, suddenly afraid of the answer more than he knows he has any right to be.

“For the sake of clarity, are you asking whether he was _involved_ with anyone?”

Eggsy fixes his eyes resolutely to Merlin's, trying like hell to calm the small, anxious tremor in his hands.

“Your guess would be as good as mine, but to my knowledge, no.” Eggsy can tell he's not exactly bluffing, why would he? Still, there's something vaguely cloaked about the other man's reply he can't help but latch onto suspiciously.

“But you was his friend too, yeah?”

Merlin confirms as much with a small nod. “In a manner of speaking,” he replies uneasily. “We worked together for over two decades. That breeds a certain level of familiarity.”

Eggsy stares at him skeptically. “You _were_ friends though.”

Merlin raises his eyebrows. “Grammatically correct,” he smirks.

“Nah, you two was thick as thieves.” His confidence leaves little room for argument and a small crease knits its way between Merlin's eyes.

“What exactly is your point?” he asks a little more aggressively than he probably means to.

Eggsy can tell by the embarrassed, angry flush creeping into the other man's cheeks that he knows exactly what Eggsy's insinuating. “ _Honestly_ ,” Merlin huffs, pulling an exasperated hand down his face. “It was never like that.”

“Not judging or nothin',” Eggsy shrugs. “Free country, mate.”

Merlin's scowl begs to differ. “I'm not your 'mate' and I certainly never was his. Not in the manner you're referring to.”

It's a little too defensive for Eggsy's liking.

“Didn't wanna be more, huh?” And well, _fuck._ The question flies out of his mouth before he can stop it and his jealousy is so utterly transparent, Eggsy would give anything for the floor to open up and swallow him whole. Thankfully, Merlin is too flabbergasted to catch the blunder.

“I haven't the faintest idea what would spark that notion,” he snorts, appalled. “Not that it's any of your business, or anyone else's for that matter-” (which is a clear indicator this is not the first time he's had to clear the air on the subject) “-but for the record, speaking on behalf of myself as well as Harry, whom, were he present and not very likely rolling in his grave as we speak at the thought, would be happy to support me in confirming that _no,_ never have we engaged in anything of the sort nor nurtured any want to.”

“Didn't mean nothin' by it,” Eggsy says, holding up his hands.

Merlin appears, for the most part placated, but there is a slyness in the way he narrows his eyes at Eggsy that worries him.

“You meant something by it,” he replies evenly, but he let's the matter rest and Eggsy is grateful he does. Not to mention, relieved for the confirmation.

He knows it's selfish, but even if all he gets is a ghost of Harry, at least he can keep the man's ghost for himself.

When they're finished, Merlin hands him the codes he'll need to enter Harry's home.

“You'll have some time to settle in, but I'm going to need you back for your next assignment in three days, understood?”

“Yes, Sir,” Eggsy replies, tucking the folder beneath his arm.

Merlin clears his throat, “I nearly forgot. You might want to do something with this,” he says, handing Eggsy Harry's urn.

“Oh,” Eggsy replies a little brokenly, taking the cold metal capsule. That's all it takes to make this too real. Not that he'd held out any hope, _fuck,_ he can still see Harry getting shot point blank, but this—well, this isn't something he was prepared for. “Yeah, sorry,” he says putting the urn back down on Merlin's desk. “But that's... that's not Harry. Keep it.”

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  


“Well, that went pleasantly,” Merlin frowns.

“It was important. The hard evidence is easier to accept,” Harry insists.

“You saw what I saw,” Merlin points out.

“I think he's handling everything rather admirably, all things considered.”

Merlin doesn't think Harry looks as chipper about that as he makes himself sound.

“You must be deluding yourself.”

“I don't need to. You said yourself he passed the psych evals.”

“Heaven knows how.”

Harry is contemplative. “He's fit for the field?”

“According to the results.”

“Then that's well enough, isn't it?”

“The lad's smart as a tack. If he wanted to fake the tests, I'm certain he could manage to.”

“There are safeguards in place to prevent that.”

“Safeguards you yourself have gotten around before,” Merlin argues. “From a sheerly mercenary perspective, he's a damn fine acquisition. I already threw him to the wolves, but that was when the world went to hell and I hardly had a choice. It's a bloody miracle he resurfaced intact. Kingsman needs its Galahad, but a dead soldier can hardly serve his country, can he?”

“I'm in complete agreement,” Harry replies. “Do you suggest sidelining him for the time being?”

“Unfortunately I expect I'll have to. If I put him out and God forbid anything happens, it'll be on my head.”

“It's been a trying two weeks. It would be for anyone, but he's only been an active agent for a very short time, it's only natural to expect he would be under some degree of stress.”

“Stress?” Merlin shakes his head. “I've seen stress. This isn't stress, Harry. This is heartbreak.”

“ _Maudlin_ ,” Harry snorts. “What cause would he have?”

“I hardly have to tell you. You have eyes. You witnessed it for yourself first hand,” Merlin exlaims. “He couldn't even take your bloody urn.”

“That's utterly ridiculous.”

Merlin nearly groans with frustration. “The truth doesn't up and vanish simply because it's inconvenient.”

Harry frowns. “Exactly what evidence do you have to support your claim?”

“Did you not hear him? He was awfully persistent wasn't he? _Weren't you married? Weren't you involved with anyone?_   For Christ's sake, _were you and I lovers?_ ”

“Well, to be fair, that rumour has been circulating for years,” Harry points out.

“Only because you're an impossible flirt,” Merlin mutters.

Harry smirks but doesn't deny it.

“That's the problem right there. You charm the pants right off everyone.”

“Yet, evidently, yours remain put.”

Merlin squeezes the bridge of his nose. “This is precisely why they stuck you running all those honey-pots before they promoted me and I could come to your rescue,” he explains with a long-suffering sigh. “Don't think I'll let you forget when you dropped that line about 'popping one's cherry'. _My God_ , Harry, what were you thinking?”

The other man has the good sense to look chastised this time.

“You see everything, don't you?” Harry sighs.

“Damn right I do _,_ ” Merlin assures him. “If you were trying to be subtle, you failed abysmally.”

Harry colours a little. “I confess, that wasn't one of my most well thought out moments.”

“This isn't a case of simple hero-worship. Frankly, if it were any more obvious, I'd have cashed in my chips and gone home already.”

For a second, Merlin debates revealing to Harry what happened between Eggsy and Princess Tilde. The lad had taken off his glasses and Merlin had gotten a nice view of the ceiling, but he'd heard in distressing detail the rest. Between his failure to perform and his emotional breakdown afterward, Merlin had almost wanted to send the young woman a sympathy card. She was really very sporting about the whole thing.

Merlin chuckles darkly. “He thinks you hung the moon, you daft old git. I told you so before but you wouldn't hear a thing of it.”

Harry's nonplussed frown speaks volumes. “Don't be absurd.”

“You have some nerve,” Merlin scoffs. “Calling me absurd. Quite the hypocrite.”

“I'm more than twice his age,” Harry reminds him, but truly, Merlin can tell Harry's reminder is more for his own benefit.

“And so is your décor. I wonder how he'll redecorate,” Merlin smirks.

“I suppose I'll find out eventually,”

“Why wait?”

Harry frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I just thought of a solution to our problem.”

“I'll humour you. What do you suggest?”

“Use your home surveillance system. Watch him.”

It's invasive of the lad's privacy, certainly. But for the sake of his well being, necessary.

“I would like it to be noted in advance that I have my reservations against doing so,” Harry warns him.

"While noted, as acting Arthur, I override your reservations."

Harry shakes his head. "I fear this is not a wise course of action." 

Merlin leans back in his chair, looking back at Harry on his screen. "I am asking you to do this not only for Kingsman, Harry, but as your friend. As well as for Eggsy's sake. I trust your judgment, If you see any cause for me to keep Galahad sidelined, I expect you'll report so immediately.”

Harry nods at him stiffly. “I'll look in on him when I can.” 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Eggsy's first stop is to his mum's new place. It's tucked in a quaint little village on the outskirts of London, safe away from the council housing and bitter impoverishment they'd suffered for near on two decades.

His mum is many things but she's no idiot. One minute she's struggling to make ends meet, living on Dean's measly dole and barely good graces and the next she's miles away on easy street supported somehow by her fuck up son. 

It's not that Eggsy was a total fuck up, but he wasn't much of a class act, if he's going to be perfectly honest with himself, so it makes sense that she's a little suspicious.

He figures what she sees is this: one minute he's being taken into custody. The next, he's miraculously released. Then, he's gone for months. The world goes to shite. He's gone again for a bit more and she's worried sick. Within the course of two weeks, Dean finds himself in hot water with some real bad business and suddenly, he's out of their lives for good and she's signing papers for full custody and the deed to a new home. Daisy gets enrolled in a proper daycare and a job falls into Michelle's lap from practically out of the sky. It's just clerical work at a local dentist's office. Enough to pay for the groceries really, but someone else is clearly footing the bill for the rest. 

A tailor's salary, even one employed by the oldest and most respected establishment on Savile Row isn't quite enough to explain her son's sudden wealth. But, Michelle has her daughter to think of. It's a second chance at a new start. Those don't come along everyday and this time, she knows better than to make the same mistake twice and reject the help.

While she doesn't look the gift-horse too far in the mouth, she doesn't exactly have to. Eggsy gets a feeling she knows exactly what he's been up to. Mother's intuition and all that.

As he finishes packing the rest of his meager belongings into the cab, she follows him out the door. She'd probably be wringing her hands if they weren't full of toddler. “Them blokes you're working for, you tell 'em thanks from me and Dais', but they already took one man I loved and I won't let 'em do it again. They let one hair on your head get harmed and you can tell 'em there'll be hell to pay,” she warns him sternly.

“I'll be alright, mum,” Eggsy promises, lying through his teeth. She's no idiot and she knows he's only saying that to pacify her. Still, she has yet one weapon in her arsenal and she's not afraid to use it.

“Besides, Daisy's gonna need a good man to look up to,” she adds, handing him an armful of his wriggling sister. She wraps her tiny, chubby arms around Eggsy's neck and plants a wet, sloppy raspberry on his cheek. “What I'm tellin' you, is stick around, Eggs. And maybe come round for supper sometimes, yeah?”

Fucking manipulative is what that is, Eggsy thinks, cradling Daisy in a tight hug. “Love you, kiddo,” he tells her, pressing a kiss just beneath her curls. “Be good for mum, yeah?”

The little girl whines in protest and her face crumples into tears as he passes her back into her mother's arms. “Work's gonna keep me pretty busy for a bit, but I'll come by when I can, you know I will,” he says, quickly closing the car door behind him.

Michelle props a hiccuping Daisy over her shoulder and leans in through the rolled-down window. “You take care, babe. You hear me?”

“Don't worry about me,” Eggsy replies, his grin wide and reassuring. “Said I'll be just fine, and I'm a man of my word, ain't I?”

Michelle is no idiot. She knows he's full of it but it's not like she can do anything about it. “Lee was as stubborn as a brick. Never could tell 'im nothin'. Just like 'im, you are,” she mutters, fixing at him a meaningful look. “You're a good boy. Always were. He'd be right proud of you, if he could see you, love.”

“Yeah,” Eggsy mumbles. “Take care, mum. You and Dais'.”

He doesn't look behind at them as the cab pulls away from the curb. He can't because he knows they'll only crack his resolve and Eggsy can't afford it. He knows too well what being a Kingsman entails and putting distance between himself and his past is the only responsible course of action. Fortunately, Kensington is no run and a hop commute from here and that will discourage too much expectation for regular visits. Besides, his mum will have her hands pretty full now with her new job and Daisy to look after to spend too much time agonizing over his well-being.

It's all for the best, he tells himself swallowing against the lump in his throat. JB is warm where he's curled up next to him and he gives the little pug a gentle scratch behind his ears. “'Least we still got each other, yeah?”

The gates of Stanhope Mews South open and Eggsy stares out the window at the manicured lawns and neatly trimmed hedges, his stomach tied up in knots. Last time he'd come here as Harry's guest. This time, he comes here with the keys to the castle (so to speak). They're codes actually. After JB hops out and Eggsy unloads his bags the cab departs. First order of business, he really should bring his stuff inside, but the remote to Harry's car sits in his pocket, calling to him.

“Stay. Good boy,” Harry tells JB, and well trained as he is, he does. Eggsy flicks through his phone to Harry's private access codes and locates the one for the garage.

Kingsman provides it's employees with company transportation whenever they want it. A call away and there's a fancy cab pulling up to chauffeur him, whether it's on a personal errand or a work-related matter. Eggsy appreciates the privilege of it, but that doesn't mean he wants it. There's a privacy and freedom to owning one's own car and Harry's Bentley fucking sparkles.

“ _Brilliant,_ ” Eggsy mutters to himself, circling around the vehicle in awe. It's practically _mint_ and the sleek detailing is breathtaking.

 _V12._ Thing must _fly_ , he reckons. “Could get in a lot of trouble with you.”

He clicks the button on the remote to unlock it and slides into the driver's seat. After closing the door behind him, Eggsy takes a moment to appreciate the novelty. _This is his car. His. Not some shite bang-up job he's borrowing from Ryan or his mum's old beater, but his._

Running a palm down the plush leather, he inhales its clean scent. _Damn it's good._

Excitement stirring in his chest, he pushes in the ignition. This immediately engages the engine and it comes to life with a soft roar, sending a rumble of vibration up through his seat. Eggsy takes in another deep breath to calm himself as his eyes roam over the lit up dash and salivates a little. There are so many gages it's almost pornographic.

Glowing from the center console are multiple touchscreen displays which he can tell clearly offer more than a simple navigation system. This is an agent's mobile workshop. _Harry's workshop._

Cupping the gearshift, even as the car idles he feels a spike of adrenaline.Harry had sat in this very seat. For a moment, he pictures the man in his place: the windows down, the wind blowing through his hair as he speeds down the motorway.

A little breathless, Eggsy feverishly rifles through the cubby-holes and glove compartments, but through his inventory, he finds little of personal value. There's a first aid kit, the vehicles's title and owner's manual and beneath this, a neatly folded atlas of London.

 _Dead-end._ With a grunt of impatience, he tosses the items back and looks around. _Ah, the side-door pocket._ Eggsy reaches down inside and pulls out a pair of driving gloves. The black leather is soft as sin. He grins down at them victoriously and pulls them on. The fit is just short of perfect.

Eggsy wiggles his fingers. _Harry had worn these._

It's a shared experience that, in a fashion, is as close to holding hands with the man as he'll ever get. Holding them out in front of him, he can almost imagine they're Harry's hands instead of his own.

Reaching up to his face, Eggsy caresses a gloved palm against his cheek. _This is what it would have felt like had Harry touched you,_ he thinks, his heart racing in his chest. He can still smell faint traces of Harry's cologne and the scent triggers a wave of terrible longing.

He knows it's pathetic and stupid as fuck but he twists around anyway, desperate for any other signs of the man. Eggsy aches with disappointment. Turns out Harry had been meticulous in his upkeep. The polished mulsanne veneer is free of any fingerprint smudges and there is neither a hair nor speck of dirt in sight.

“He took good care of you, huh?” Eggsy muses with a resigned frown.

He really ought to have expected that would be the case. In every aspect of his life, Harry demanded a high degree of pride. His attention to detail had been absolutely thorough in everything he'd done, from his painstakingly placed tie clip to the pristine condition of the gun in his holster.

It's this thought that sparks a moment's worth of envy as Eggsy wonders what it might have been like to be the center of Harry's unwavering focus. _Fuck,_ he thinks, sinking down in his seat, _he must have made one hell of a lover._

The mere idea of being laid out beneath the man sends a shiver of lust spearing through him. His grip on the steering wheel tightens as he lets himself roll with the fantasy. He can imagine Harry's eyes— _eyes he could get lost in—honey brown and shuttered with desire as they rove over him. Eggsy is the only thing he can see; the only thing he wants._

He breathes a shaky sigh out through his nose as the warmth blossoming in the pit of his stomach finds its way downward, tightening in his groin. _Harry's lips would be lax, kiss-bitten pink and curled up at the corners into a seductive, come-hither smile; his mouth would be as talented as the rest of him, expertly pulling from Eggsy every eager moan_ —

A high-pitched yip from outside douses the fantasy as effectively as a cold bucket of water dumped over his head.

“Excuse me?” he hears. “Is this dog yours?”

Startled, Eggsy pokes his head out and glances around the side of the car. The stranger stands just outside the garage peering in at him with a hesitant smile as her microscopic poodle tangles itself on its leash with enthusiasm. JB's tail wags frantically as he investigates his new companion's rear end, _the charmer._

“Made a friend already, JB?” Eggsy laughs, trying for as believably posh an accent as he can muster. Making himself decent, he quickly sweeps a hand over his hair, adjusts his trousers and steps out of the Bentley.

“I've no intention of intruding, but I saw your little one out here with the rest of your...” the lady glances down disapprovingly at his mismatched, worn-out, old bags, “- _things,_ ” she finishes, crisply polite.

Eggsy follows her gaze down to his 'things' and winces at the dead give-away of his origins. Yeah. No designer luggage in sight. It's not an irrecoverable first impression, but he's going to have to think fast. Pulling together his dignity he rallies a smile. “Ah. Well, you see, since I've only just arrived, I thought I'd just take a peak at the old girl here before I settle in, ” he smoothly replies, patting the hood of the car. “Make sure she's in working order.”

“I've never heard of a door-to-door mechanic,” she remarks, looking him over skeptically. “A little well-dressed for the work, I'd imagine.”

Eggsy grins. “I endeavor to impress,” he retorts cheerfully.

The lady's guarded expression relaxes into a smile. _Nailed it._ “I assume you must be Harry's boy?”

Eggsy's grin falters. He knows what she means, but still, the words arranged in the possessive have a nice ring to them: _Harry's boy._ He likes how that sounds, _only in a slightly different context_.

“I wasn't aware he had any family,” she adds. “But I do say, there is quite a striking resemblance, isn't there?”

Eggsy shakes his head, “I'm his nephew.”

“I see. Perhaps it's your charming smile. It does so remind me of Harry's,” she reminisces a little wistfully. “I am very sorry for your loss. I can't say I knew Mr. Hart very well, as he was often away on business, however he was always very polite. _Too polite,_ in my opinion. If you catch my drift,” she confides with a sly grin. “Of course, that remind me! I must beg your pardon. It appears I've entirely forgotten my own manners. My name is Agatha Hollands. It's a pleasure to meet you-”

“ _Gary_ ,” Eggsy furnishes taking her hand. “The pleasure's mine.”

“Welcome to the neighborhood, Gary,” Agatha smiles pleasantly. “I do hope you find Stanhope to your liking. I'll be sure to send over a tray for you later. My Hanna makes a splendid streusel. Can barely speak a word of English, poor dear, but she's a marvel in the kitchen.”

“That won't be necessary,” Eggsy replies quickly. “I wouldn't want to put you out.”

“Oh, not at all _._ ” _She's only the help after all._ Eggsy grits his teeth behind his smile.

“Anyway, darling. Harry may have been shy, but you needn't be. I'm only a house down and if you should ever find yourself in need of a cup of sugar, I've a cupboard full.”

 _Well, that wasn't subtle._ Eggsy's face strains with the effort to maintain his polite expression until Agatha and her tiny, teased out ball of fluff are out of sight.

“JB, you old flirt, look at what you get me into,” Eggsy sighs, shaking his head at the pug. “Well, come on, then. We've got to get this shit inside before you attract anymore bored housewives.”

The code clears and he hears the click of the lock unlatching. JB bounds in ahead of him as Eggsy sets down his armful of bags. “Oi, where you off to?” He calls out. The pug sniffs around determinedly, trotting around the house before returning to Eggsy.

After he finishes unloading the last of his possessions at the top of the staircase he takes a seat on the steps. “You were looking for Harry, weren't you.”

JB cocks his head at him with wide eyes. “Couldn't find 'im, could ya?” The pug nestles his head down forlornly on his paws and snorts a dejected sigh that breaks Eggsy's heart a little more than it already was. “I know boy. You miss him too.”Eggsy pats his heads and JB licks his fingers. “Utter shite, innit?”

Pushing himself back up, he grabs the envelope Merlin had given him and wanders back downstairs to the study. The light filtering in through the sheer curtains lends a grim cast to the room. The shadows fall longer somehow from the abandoned furniture. _What's a chair if there's no one to sit in it,_ Eggsy wonders as he lowers himself into Harry's chair. Settling down against the cushion, he props his feet on the ottoman and looks over to the side table. Dragging his finger along the surface, he leaves a stripe in the thin film of dust.

Dumping out the contents of the envelope into his lap, Eggsy takes a turn studying the items. According to Merlin, Harry was wearing both when he'd died.

First, there's Harry's royal oak watch. He puts it on and it's a little snug, but then, for Harry's height and build, he had surprisingly slender wrists.

Next, is Harry's signet ring. _Galahad's ring_. Every Kingsman is sized for one, thus, Eggsy is already wearing his own. The gold is a little nicked, the emblem is a bit faded and the band itself is worn thin a little, but for all intents and purposes, it's the same piece. Out of curiosity, Eggsy slides off his and pushes on Harry's. It fits as if it were made for him. He doesn't take it off again. Nobody will notice, save for himself. It'll be his secret. _Their secret. His and Harry's._

Eggsy gets up and leaves JB where he is, snoring at the foot of the ottoman.

Making his way back upstairs, he steps over the heap he'd left at the top and meanders down the hall quietly. Technically, he knows there's no logical reason to be quiet, but this is new territory. He's not been up here before and he feels like he's trespassing.

The master bedroom isn't exactly spacious by most's standards, but to Eggsy, it's a damn sight roomier than any cupboard he's ever been stuffed in. Harry's bed is a bed. It's nothing exceptional aside from being exceptionally underwhelming: moderately sized to comfortably accommodate one, two perhaps if there's some ambition for it and so fastidiously made Eggsy's sure it would pass the coin bouncing test. To be honest, it looks lonely as hell.

The rest of the room is fairly stark in it's appointments, but despite this, there's still something warm in it's understated elegance. It remind Eggsy of Harry in that beige cardigan. Not by any means drab, but comfortable; familiar.

The connecting bathroom has a fairly modern walk in shower and a large counter with a round basin. Double taps, though. Traditional that.

The toilet is a small enclosed room unto itself and in a basket on the wall is a collection of mostly old crossword puzzle books. Eggsy smirks and flips through one of them, impressed to see them mostly filled.

Heading back to the counter, he opens the medicine cabinet. There's an assortment of toiletries mostly: a bottle of Bayers and some gauze strips, a kit of nail trimmers and files, tweezers, an impeccably clean comb, shaving cream, toothbrush, toothpaste, all the typical stuff. Except for the straight razor and strop. But then, considering Harry's traditionalist eccentricities, he's not surprised.

When his eyes stumble past Harry's cologne he lights up with excitement. This is what he was looking for. After flipping the bottle upside down to wet the bottom of the stopper, Eggsy takes it off and dabs it on the underside of his wrist just below Harry's watch. When it's dry, he lifts his arm up to his face and takes a whiff. There are basenotes of bergamot. Above this, is something cool that reminds him of the ocean and of silver things and Harry. Especially Harry.

In a daze, Eggsy strolls back into the bedroom and collapses down on Harry's bed. The mattress must be on a good frame for the lack of springs creaking beneath his sudden weight. It's a damn good mattress too. Supportive and plush in all the right ways. Altogether, the bed has been the most lackluster feature of all Harry's possessions until this revelation.

To further investigate his creeping suspicions, Eggsy pulls back the comforter. Of course, the sheets, as he'd anticipated, are without doubt, the most decadent thing he's ever felt.

“Ha, gotcha and your million fuckin' thread-count sheets you hedonistic tosser. I knew it.”

Eggsy snags a pillow and curls around it. “Fuckin' knew it.”

Hot tears stream down his face and he doesn't have the strength to wipe them away or a single fuck to give to stop them.

 _He's so fucked_.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

"So, Harry, how's bald eagle land? They have any Marmite over there?" Merlin asks, taking a bite of his toast. The top of it's smeared with a thick layer of brown goo. Harry schools his expression. It's rude, after all, to show one's distaste for someone else's breakfast.  

"Not so far as I've seen," he replies, a little queasy. "You're up early."

Merlin snorts. "You're up late," he retorts. 

"Checking in?"

"Thought I might. Anything to report?" Merlin asks, taking a sip of tea.  

"False lead."

"Bum luck."

Harry tries not to look overly anxious. "Any word?" He asks evenly.

"Nah. Lad just got in. Give it a breath, will ya?"

Taking a bullet to the eye, had surprisingly been the least of Harry's troubles over the past two weeks. It was the knife wound over his scapula that had done the most damage. He hadn't been able to suture it himself so he'd been forced to cauterize it instead. He expects it will be some time before the muscle heals enough to give him back full mobility in his arm. 

On the whole, Harry's made a slow recovery, but not as slow as his progress in the field.

It doesn't help that he's working mostly by himself. Everyone thinks he's dead, so Merlin can't exactly communicate with him from headquarters.

Which means, he gets to look forward to some late nights.  _No rest for the wicked,_ Harry thinks with a long sigh, but he accepts the facts for what they are. 

He can't change what had happened to him that day, and he can't change what he'd been used to do. The slaughtered corpses strewn about the pews don't haunt him when he goes to sleep at night. He feels no compulsory sense of responsibility or remorse.  

Harry had long ago learned how to center himself; how to slow his heart rate and slip easily into that cool, muted placed inside his head. He knows how to detach himself from what he does. Not all Kingsman agents are assassins. Harry however, is and it's his specialty. He takes no pleasure in what he does. What he does is a means to an end, and it's the endgame that he cares about.  

Over the years, he's had many close brushes with death himself, but no fear of that which he knows is inevitable hinders him. An agent's life expectancy may range. There are variables involved, but it rarely exceeds retirement and Harry had tasted the Napoleonic brandy often enough to be reminded of the fact.

But, in those fleeting seconds he'd stared down the barrel of Valentine's Heckler and Koch P30, for the first time in decades, Harry Hart felt fear.

He'd known, in an instant, that save for a last second miracle (the likes of which even Merlin would be unlikely able to conger), he would not be returning home again. At least, not alive.

And it wasn't for himself he'd been afraid. It was for  _Eggsy._

It was almost a sure bet the young man would be watching when it happened. He would likely have seen him lose control of himself. He would have seen a man stripped of his personhood. A man who may have resembled Harry but wasn't. He'd see this animated corpse; this weapon, rage kill an entire congregation of men and women. He would see Valentine pull the trigger, he would see Harry die, and there was not a single thing Harry could do to protect him from it.

It would be hard on the lad. Harry would have had to be a complete, blind fool to convince himself otherwise. Months ago, when he'd come out of his coma, Merlin had confided to him that throughout, between tests and training, Eggsy had religiously visited nearly every spare minute he'd been able to sit vigil at his bedside.

Harry had been startled by this news. He hadn't expected it. Prior to the accident, they had barely spoken more than a handful of times. It puzzled him. Why would the boy have attached himself so loyally to a man he'd hardly known?

The most obvious explanation is that Eggsy was suffering a sadly misplaced case of hero-worship. Harry made a dramatic entrance into his life and had changed it dramatically. 

Almost two decades ago, after Michelle had rejected his help, Harry had left Eggsy with his father's medal and a promise. He'd kept an ear out for years, but when the call never came, he'd all but given up hope; lamenting the very real possibility he'd have to carry his guilt over Lee's death to his grave. But then, the call comes. 

Harry learned quickly that the lad had apparently landed himself in a bit of a bind. He'd be facing serving an 18 month term for grand-theft auto among a laundry list of other offenses. All Harry needed to do was put in a call and the charges would be dropped. The debt would be paid and they could go their separate ways. They would never have to even meet. Of course, then Eggsy had to go and complicate matters by proving himself interesting.

The lad had been given the option of having his charges reduced. All he'd had to do in return was provide the names of his accomplices. Apparently, he'd refused. He'd rejected the offer at a great cost to himself. It was an impressive demonstration of his strength of character; of his great capacity for unswerving loyalty and Harry was intrigued. 

He'd taken it on himself to peak into Eggsy's files, and what he'd found there had been enlightening. This was a young man with talent and intelligence— _brimming with potential,_ if only he could be steered in the right direction. Admittedly, he was a bit rough around the edges, but otherwise, Harry could see he was clearly prime candidate material. Kingsman needed a new Lancelot, and he still needed to put in his proposal.

So, Harry made that phone call, and a short time later, Eggsy was released from custody. When he'd walked out of the station, Harry had recognized him from the picture in his file, but seeing him in person was a new experience entirely. The last time he'd seen Eggsy, he'd been but a small child. This Eggsy is a man. Harry admires him for just a moment longer behind the privacy of his sunglasses.

"Would you like a lift home?"

Eggsy had given him a speculative look. "Who are you?"

"The man who got you released." 

Harry takes him out to a pub. Somewhere of the lad's choosing. Home turf neutralizes discomfort. 

Still, Eggsy turned out to be a tough nut to crack. Harry had hoped alluding to his friendship with his father would be enough to lower his guard, but when this failed, he'd tried a different tactic and assumed a role of paternal authority. This had resulted in provoking Eggsy as he'd expected, but his reaction was the opposite of what he'd hoped for. Instead of taking the gentle reprimanding in good stride, he'd immediately gone on the defensive. Harry despaired as he watched the lad slip from his fingers, cursing himself silently for his ill-devised blunder. But then, just when everything was looking grim, in walked opportunity in the form of poor manners and a conveniently nasty off-handed comment. The thugs were little more than props for a performance and Harry demonstrated less self-restraint than the situation had called for, which he expected would result in a rather unpleasant lecture later from Merlin, but for the results achieved, he was certain it would be worth it.  

After he'd slid back in the booth and taken a long drink, he'd finally let himself look back up at the boy. Eggsy stared back at him agape with stars in his eyes and Harry, for just a brief, guilty moment, let himself relish in the pleasure of the young man's flattering regard. It wasn't everyday he found himself the center of attention of so handsome a young man. 

More to the point, Harry had accomplished what he'd set out to. He would offer Eggsy an opportunity to pursue the kind of good future he might have looked forward to had Harry not denied him of it so early on in life. His careless oversight had cost a child his father and set him down the wrong path. It was only fair he redress the situation. The old, outstanding debt would be paid.  

Eggsy owed him nothing. He'd just assumed the lad would have understood that. 

It's why, after Merlin had finally cleared him for release from medical, Harry was surprised to find Eggsy fast making himself a constant fixture, slotting right in by Harry's side as if there had been some sort of vacancy to fill.

"Think about it. When has the lad last had a proper role model," Merlin had pointed out to him.

Harry had scoffed at the prospect. "Are you suggesting I fit this bill?"

"You're not _too_ bad a bloke, I suppose," Merlin had grinned.

The thing was, the idea was flattering, but it didn't settle right. Harry wanted... well, he wasn't sure what he'd wanted at first. Or perhaps he hadn't been quite ready to admit it to himself just yet. 

He compromised on resolving to be whatever Eggsy needed him to be.

Harry considered he might be alright with calling them friends, but that would discard the expectation of this having an expiration date, and Harry hadn't known quite how he would manage that given his personal view on such things. He was set in his ways.  

Harry didn't participate in many extracurriculars. His life was primarily his work.

He enjoyed a few solitary hobbies of course, and from time-to-time he'd even relent to the occasional outing with his colleagues, because as Percival never ceased to remind him: _“All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.”_ He didn't want to appear unsociable.

Still, he maintained a firm, albeit polite distance.

After Lee's death, Harry learned quickly, that in this line of work, caring was not an advantage. He'd lived that motto faithfully with one exception: Merlin.

How that had come about was an interesting story.

Before Merlin was _Merlin_ he was simply Handler 28.

The man had entered into Kingsman just around the same time as Harry. They hadn't taken an immediate disliking to each other, at least, not straight off the bat. 

Merlin was...unconventional. As a scotsman from a working class background originally, recruited straight out of MI6, the man was naturally, out of his native element. 

He could be a little impatient and tactless, a little caustic at times, perhaps, but he was otherwise, mostly inoffensive. His worst crime was likely his short-temper and oversensitivity, but he'd made up for that with a subtle, dry sense of humour and a vast repertoire of knowledge. Merlin was brilliant at what he did, and so, Harry tried to reserve his judgment and grant him the space to adjust. 

Still, he was made regularly aware he wasn't winning any popularity contests.

The funny thing was, as unlikable and disliked as he was, Merlin was never outright antisocial. He didn't actively exert himself trying to make friends, but Harry could still tell he was holding out some hope for finding one. 

It's why, he'd grace the Kingsman lounge with his presence whether invited or not. The others were never so boorish as to exclude him from their conversations, but they never quite tried to engage him into theirs either. Harry found it a little uncomfortable to watch. 

On one such occasion, he appeared either not to notice or not to care if his opinions were unwelcome and grating on everyone's last nerve, they had eventually steered the discussion away from him. Merlin, affronted and a bit upset had leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms over his chest a little huffily and scowled.

Bors had shared a glance with Harry and leaned over with a raised eyebrow. In a whisper, he'd made a snide remark about the man, and Harry had laughed.

What a mistake that had been. When he'd looked up again, the Merlin's eyes were fixed on him and narrowed. And maybe, just a little hurt.  _Et tu? --_ they had seemed to accuse. 

Even if Harry hadn't exactly ever spoken up on his behalf, his mere silent respect had still made him Merlin's ally. It's unfortunate he'd figured that out too late because afterward, Merlin seemed to hold an especial grudge against him. Harry was fairly sure even Gawain, whom had always been the most vocal of Merlin's critics wasn't receiving glares as icy as the ones Merlin was shooting him.

Then, out of the blue one day, Arthur assigned him as Galahad's handler. Harry tried to be professional, but the man's constant antagonism was wearing on him and fed up, he'd tossed aside his radio and gone out on his mission unaccompanied. Of course, then everything had gone tit's up and Harry had nearly been killed, but at the last second, by the grace of God, Merlin somehow managed to extract him from the mess.

Harry may have had his reasons at the time, but nevertheless. He'd broken protocol, and he was prepared to accept the consequences for doing so. The disciplinary action would he harsh. At the very least he'd face suspension. Arthur would be likely to put him on nothing but errand missions for an eternity. He'd be lucky if he wasn't demoted to some other position entirely. But then, nothing happened.

Merlin had taken the blame on himself. It hadn't cost him his job, but it had cost him his credibility. He'd have to work even harder to re-earn it.

Harry had, obviously, tried to make amends, but the man had rebuffed his every attempt. Then, the Kingsman annual New Year's party rolled around. Until that evening, Merlin had actively gone out of his way to avoid crossing paths with him, but, as Harry was refilling his beverage at the punch bowl, Percival came up beside him.

“Someone's eyes have been boring a hole through your back all night,” he'd remarked with an amused glance behind them. Harry peered through the crowd to where Percival had indicated.

Sure enough, there was Merlin, leaning against the wall off to the side away from the rest of the party, staring back at him. When their eyes had met, he hadn't flinched away. There was something of a challenge to that and Harry was never one to back down from a challenge.

Merlin had greeted him coolly. “Galahad.”

“Handler 28.”

“Mark,” he'd replied, folding his arms across his chest.

“Harry.”

Merlin had smirked in response. “I know your name. I looked in your file.” 

"You don't have the clearance to access agent's files without approval," Harry had pointed out.

"What are you going to do, tell on me?" Merlin  

Harry had shrugged noncommittally and stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Why were you looking at my file?"

"I wanted to know who you were." The answer had been a frank one, so Harry had returned with an equally frank reply.

"You might have just said so."

"Alright. I'm saying so."

Looking back on it, Harry was never sure if Merlin had meant that to sound like a come on, but at the time, Harry had taken it that way. 

What he'll never be able to forget, was the priceless look of horror on Merlin's face the following morning when he'd woken up in Harry's bed.

“We didn't,” he'd groaned, cringing.

“I'm afraid we did,” Harry had replied, matter-of-fact. 

“No,” Merlin told him firmly. “ _We didn't._ ”

Harry tried to not be too offended, but he had taken it a little personally.

“On one condition,” he'd finally conceded. 

“Fine. What?”

“Come with me to breakfast.”

Merlin does and Harry had vowed to never speak a word of it again.

 _Well_ , he never explicitly references what happened, but it's too easy to get a rise out of the man and Harry can't help but occasionally flirt with him. They both know he only does it to take the piss.

After breakfast that day, Harry had expected for things to be awkward between them, but it hadn't been and eventually, they grown to be good friends.

If Merlin had ever wanted more, he'd kept it well to himself over the years. Still, there are times Harry wonders.

Merlin may claim a hazy recollection of that night, but Harry remembers vividly that Merlin had been the one to instigate.

He'd dragged Harry outside and for a second, his glassy eyes had gone a little wild and Harry hadn't known whether he was about to throw a punch or whether he would spout off some hasty excuse and flee back inside. 

And then, much to his astonishment, Merlin had grabbed him by the lapels and kissed him. It had been more of an attack than a kiss. There had been teeth and Harry had tasted blood from the split in his lip.

Harry remembers the conversation they'd had just over a week ago:

“Merlin.”

“Harry.”

“ _Mark,_ ” Harry doesn't use his christian name. Not usually. For whatever reason, Merlin is uncomfortable with it. But when he wants the man's attention, he knows it's the most effective way to get it.

“For God's sake what?” Merlin had burst out with a harassed scowl, slamming down the stack of papers onto the desk. Even in the webcam, Harry could see the deep shadows in the grooves beneath his eyes. They'd spent hours re-writing Harry's will and he could tell it had been trying on the man.

“Take care of him. Make sure he's alright.”

Merlin had stared down at the table with quiet resignation. “ _Harry-_ ”

There's an almost plaintive note in the way Merlin had said his name. It had told Harry a little more than he'd suspected he'd been meant to hear.

“I will. Of course I will,” he'd promised.

“Merlin.”

“What?”

“You know I love you dearly.”

“Shut up, you sap. Save it for your boy,” Merlin had snapped back at him, grinning.

In the end, what Harry does know is this: they are two, aging men in a world where such a thing is a rarity and a privilege. They've known each other for a very long time, and even if there had been a moment back in the day when they might have pursued something else (and isn't that a wistful what-if), they've both found a place with each other they're content with now.

“He's not my 'boy',” Harry had corrected him, less than amused.

“Well, if that's the case, you've done a bang-up job convincing anyone of it.”

“I very much hope you're mistaken.”

Merlin had scoffed and shaken his head. “You're as obvious as a circus parade in the middle of the night to me, but then again, I do have a few years experience knowing what you're about, Harry.”

“Whatever you think it is you know, you're wrong.”

“You can play yourself for a fool, you can even play Eggsy, but you can't play me for one, you thick berk.” Merlin had huffed. “I'll tell you what I do know, you've been mad over that lad since you first met him.”

“You live an interesting fantasy life, my friend,” Harry had sighed, exasperated.

“Oh, that's rich, coming from you,” he'd retorted. “Christ's sake. You're giving him your whole fucking house, if that's not a declaration, then I'll be damned if I know what is.”

Harry knows he's got a point.

But how could he not? Eggsy had come to mean the world to him. After his convalescence and then, throughout his rehabilitation, Eggsy had made time for him. He'd come down and they'd go to the gym for a spar, maybe run a few laps together. Afterward, he'd often join him for supper. Harry found himself looking forward to his visits. Eggsy made for excellent company. It was easy to relax around him. He had a sharp wit and made him laugh. He was terribly clever and endlessly fascinating. Harry never tired of hearing his opinion on matters, regardless of the topic. 

The fortunate thing was, traditionally, while in training, a mentor is supposed to look in on their candidate. And well, if that only supposed to be once in a while and they were perhaps seeing more of each other than was typically expected, then that could be easily explained away. They had a lot of lost time to make up for, after all.

Over the course of weeks, Eggsy had slowly chipped away at his walls until they were no more than a pile of rubble and before Harry had realized it, they'd breezed right into a fast friendship. It was an informal thing, and without any labels, there was a delicate ambiguity that made it too easy for Harry to forget himself. He knew it was crossing over into dangerous territory. Small, too frequent touches and shy, curious eyes would sometimes linger a little too long and it stirred in him a hope he knew he shouldn't nurture, let alone be allowing himself to have in the first place. 

But then, whenever Eggsy would look at him with that disarming smile and those wide, guileless, sparkling blue eyes, radiating with warmth for him, Harry felt like his chest would burst with elation and he'd forget himself all over again. He'd do anything for those smiles.

When he realizes that, is when he realizes he isn't just attracted to the young man, he's utterly besotted. He's disgusted with himself. He feels like the old lecher from Mann's A Death in Venice. Here is this magnificent, beautiful child, and here he is, old enough to be his father. It's horribly, embarrassingly inappropriate.

If Eggsy felt even remotely the same way, and all those tiny, meaningful smiles were more than just figments of Harry's lonely imagination, then he'll be damned if he'll let it slip through his fingers. Still, at the time, even humouring the prospect was absolutely forbidden. A Kingsman can not, under any circumstances engage in intimate relations with a candidate while in trials. 

But, once Eggsy would be made Lancelot, they would be on equal footing and anything would be game. Of course, when Eggsy didn't shoot the damn dog, Harry was utterly beside himself with frustration.  
  
They had fought and then, before Harry could resolve anything, he was pulled away.

And then Valentine's gun was leveled between his eyes and Harry was afraid.

Afraid because he'd missed his chance to apologize. To set things right. To tell that breathtaking young man everything he meant to him.

Taking a seat down at the desk, Harry opens his laptop and plugs in the password to his home security system back in Kensington. Kentucky feels a million miles away from home suddenly as he sees Eggsy, still fully dressed, curled up asleep on the top of his bed.

Mouth agape, Harry stares at the screen.

_He's so fucked._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I caved. It looked like unrequited Merlin/Harry was writing itself so I touched on it. As if Harry and Eggsy weren't enough of a mess, I had to go and break Merlin, too. That poor, poor baby.


	5. Chapter 5

Eggsy's unintentional nap is eventually interrupted by an angry growling from his stomach, neglected since early yesterday. To address the issue, he attacks the most obvious of pressing business first: Harry's kitchen.

The contents of the fridge are unsurprisingly meager and it's not a daunting task to clear out anything that's gone off. Once this is accomplished, he does an inventory of the pantry, inspecting the non-perishables and categorizing what he plans to use and what needs to be replenished. Carding through Harry's rolodex on the counter, Eggsy comes across a recipe that will work with what he's got.

Shooting a whimsical grin at the man's striped apron hanging off a hook by the microwave, (which is, in all fairness to Harry, about as masculine as an apron can get), he grabs it, throws it over himself, wraps the tie around his waist and puts his nose to the grindstone.

He's a pretty good cook, actually. Not that his mum couldn't do it herself, it's just, she was busy with work most nights, so much of his childhood he'd had to learn to fend for himself.

When the soup is done, he sets the table as Harry had taught ( _“A place for everything and everything in its place,” he'd told him,_ ) and sits down to supper.

Afterward, belly full, Eggsy cleans up after himself and then proceeds to explore the rest of the house as if he's an archaeologist who has somehow, unexpectedly happened across the mythical, lost city of Atlantis and can't quite believe his good fortune; observing even the most minor of details with a deep, greedy thirst.

In the deepest recesses of his conscience, there's a little red flag waving itself frantically; trying to catch his attention, but, it's a very, _very_ small flag easy to ignore and frankly, although Eggsy gets that _ethically speaking_ , he should feel more conflicted about poking his nose around like this, he reasons that _legally speaking,_ he's entitled to do as he please.

It's not disrespectful. It's not an invasion of privacy. Harry made him his heir, plain and simple, and by extension of this fact, he did posthumously grant him permission to snoop. (Also, is it really even technically 'snooping' if it's stuff that actually belongs to him now?)

Admittedly, he supposes it might be a bit of gray area, but at the end of the day, the driving force of his curiosity supersedes his reservations and if he's brutally honest with himself, he fundamentally knows it's more than curiosity motivating him. It's jealousy.

Harry had always been so reserved; so slow to trust, always keeping his cards so close to his chest, and Eggsy knew if he tripped the alarm bells by asking questions of the man that were too intimate and too revealing too soon, this fragile thing they'd been building would fall to shambles. Harry would have drawn up his shields and Eggsy knows if ever they had even one thing in common, it had always been the durability of their defenses.

What frustrates him the most is, the only means left to truly get his answers; to truly know this remarkable man on any meaningful level, is hidden in the riddles of what he'd left behind.

Eggsy is jealous of Harry's secrets; his mystery. He wants all of it for himself; he wants as much of Harry as is left to get.

He doubts he'll find what he's looking for in the liquor cabinet, but he looks anyway. Between the dining room and kitchen is the bar, stocked full enough to cater to even the fussiest of guests. It's here, below the racks of hanging glassware and watermark crystal Harry had once instructed him in the fine art of crafting the perfect martini.

There had been something different about the man that night. He'd seemed accessible in a way he hadn't before and there had been something in his behaviour—something that had brushed the edge of flirtation. Whenever Harry had looked at him, his eyes had seemed just a little warmer than usual and had seemed to rest on him just a little longer. Throughout the evening, there had been instances in their conversation that had lacked Harry's typical self-censure.

He'd shared minor hints about himself; slight, teasing glimpses into his personal life that had left Eggsy charmed, fascinated and eagerly yearning for more. And then, there had been the unusual frequency of those small, fleeting touches: a hand on his arm or his shoulder or the small of his back—nothing untoward, but just a little suggestive and Eggsy, whom really hadn't had that much to drink, had gotten just a little drunk on the attention.

_And fuck, he'd been so close to nearly propositioning the man..._

But then, Harry had bidden him goodnight, and Eggsy had found himself standing outside on the man's stoop staring wide-eyed at the other side of the door with everything he'd meant to say still on the tip of his tongue with no place to go but back inside himself.

Eggsy shakes his head, clearing away the memory. _Too little, too late._

In the dining room itself, against one wall there's a fireplace and along the opposite, to the side of the window there's a long, antique buffet. Inside he discovers cases of heirloom silver and delicately patterned china, all quite fitting of a _viscount._ What a fucking revelation _that_ had been.

Underneath the crystal chandelier is the beautiful, polished mahogany dining table where Eggsy recalls having, on one precious occasion, shared supper with Harry. A little nostalgically, he smiles as he remembers what his mentor had taught him about the importance of the dinner napkin.

Unfolded over one's lap, it's the perfect way to disguise weaponry: up to four knives, two firearms of various sizes or a smaller arsenal of equipment that can be discreetly hidden— _“all while maintaining an air of sophistication.”_

No areas of Harry's house are wanting for a lack of warmth, and that, Eggsy decides, is most evident in the sitting room. There's a genteel, understated elegance here, achingly evocative of the man. The place is surrounded by a collection of artwork and photography, tiffany lamps, vases, fashionable and surprisingly comfortable furniture and an eclectic assortment of neatly placed nick-knacks.

Among the bookshelves, Eggsy browses the titles, curious to see if there's anything he either recognizes or might be interested in taking a closer look at. There are the expected classics of course, an entire row dedicated to encyclopedias and a few various hobbyist guides. Amusingly enough, there's also the complete set of James Bond novels.

Through the entry hall, there's two more rooms. One is the downstairs toilet, Eggsy affectionately refers to as Mister Pickle's throne room. In here, the walls are covered nearly floor to ceiling with displays of pinned butterflies. Eggsy had thought the whole thing was bizarre as fuck when he'd first seen it.

“Why butterflies?” he'd asked.

“To remind me of the fragility of life, but more importantly, it's beauty,” Harry had replied. His candid response had rung with a heartfelt sincerity and depth of wisdom that still renders Eggsy a little off balance with awe when he thinks back on it. It would have been so simple for the man to revert to his standard equivocation, but instead, in one breath, he'd imparted a profound dictum and a rare glimpse into his very soul.

It's devastating to imagine the alternate version of the future that will never be: the great man he might have become under his mentor's influence. Eggsy's smile is brittle and bitter. All he has left now of Harry and all Harry had left him with are pale shades of himself anchored to artifacts and echoes.

Regrets are pointless. Probably just as pointless as going into Harry's office, which is actually the man's study considering his real office is back at HQ. Eggsy had been a few time before, of course. The familiar walls are papered with articles from the Sun—mementos commemorating his vast professional accomplishments in a subtle, jocular way that would be lost on anyone save a fellow Kingsman.

He finds nothing of interest within the drawers. No personal affects, just the standard, run-of-the-mill clutter of office supplies and a blank ledger.

But, every good spy knows that looks can be deceiving, so naturally, aspiring to that objective, Eggsy prods around for trick latches, false bottoms and other signs of hidden compartments. For his effort, the results are disappointing. He does, in fact, find a false bottom and for a hair's breadth of a second, his heart's in his throat with excitement.

He finds a coupon for Tesco's. On the bright side, it's buy one get one half-off crisps and it's still before expiration date. Must have slipped beneath the drawer lining is all—Eggsy very much doubts there's any hidden meaning in it.

Feeling a bit like the wind was taken out of his sails, he sighs dejectedly.

This leaves only Harry's laptop which he knows for a fact is rigged with thermite. Harry had allowed him to use his computer when he'd left him, but he'd set him up under a separate account. He'd never given him his personal password, and in the list Eggsy had received from Merlin, it's nowhere to be found. That means, the device is good as useless.

JB bounds up the stairs after him as he finally makes it back up to second floor.

There's a small guest bedroom which seems to have been appropriated into a makeshift workshop. Upon a small table across from the cot there's a scattered array of pens, pins pastes and exact-o blades. There's also an empty frame. It looks lonely there, awaiting an addition beneath its glass sheet that will never come. In the closet is an ironing board and a stack of more empty frames.

Something about them; empty and purposeless, seems vaguely haunting and when Eggsy's satisfied there's little else to find here, he closes the door to the room behind him gently, respectful not to wake the sleeping ghosts.

Dormant doesn't always mean dead. He's not very superstitious, but he does shiver a little, glad to be out of there.

JB, who had been waiting in the hall, toddles past him into the master bedroom. Eggsy smiles fondly at the little pug as he watches him nestle into his pad at the foot of the bed before curling into a tan little ball. Promptly, he falls right to sleep. It's a talent Eggsy has always been impressed by.

His first target is the nightstand. It's contents however, reveal little evidence of anything too scandalous save for a tube of hand cream which he supposes could certainly serve a dual purpose for other activities, and seeing as there's no sign of even so much as a small box of condoms, he assumes the lotion's alternative use must be occasionally appreciated.

Of course, he learned in training that if any agent were to be put on a honey-pot, they're supplied in advance with an entire kit of contraceptives right along with their dossiers. But the absence of anything of that nature in Harry's own home pretty heavily suggests a rather long and obvious dry spell.

Rather than feel sorry for the poor bloke, Eggsy finds himself absurdly pleased by the knowledge.

But then, it occurs to him to check his bureau. It's not an uncommon place to stash items of a more intimate nature.

Pulling open the top drawer, Eggsy is a little disturbed to find an anally-retentive effort in sock organization. Frankly, he's impressed enough by the segregation of the footwear by colours and patterns, but to make it all a little more surreal, they're _folded._

“Christ, Harry,” Eggsy mutters. “Get a fuckin' life.”

Sticking his hand beneath, he does come across something, but it feels too flat to be any packets of rubbers.

It's an envelope. In of itself, for whatever's inside, the fact that Harry felt some kind of need to keep it tucked out of sight in his sock drawer is a little interesting. Mostly because, in the unlikely event anyone could break into his veritably impenetrable fortress warded by the greatest magician on this side of the pond, a sock drawer in not the safest place to hide a dirty little secret. It doesn't take a spy to know that.

It's more like Harry's intent was to hide it from himself. Keep it where he knows he can find it again, but somewhere it can also be conveniently forgotten from time-to-time.

As if he's ashamed.

Not that Eggsy gets why. It's nothing exactly incriminating. Just a snapshot taken with a few of the other candidates from back early on in training. Merlin had taken the photo himself (because “keeping a physical record is always important”). Roxie's got her arm draped over one of his shoulders, there's Digby off to the side looking conspiratorially chummy with Charlie who's wearing his typical arrogant smirk and then there's Hugo and Rufus flanking the group.

Merlin had wanted them to be serious about the whole thing so naturally they were quite the opposite.

Save for himself.

Eggsy stares at his image with a small contemplative frown. It's immediately clear he hadn't been listening for Merlin calling the shot. Instead, he's staring intently at something out of frame and at first glance, his expression seems pensive—thoughtful perhaps; oblivious to everything outside of whatever has so raptly arrested his attention.

Then he remembers.

_Harry._

Harry had been there that day. He'd been standing out of shot, off to the side.

Eggsy blushes, cringing with retrospective embarrassment for himself. With the memory restored, now that he looks at himself again, it's all painfully obvious. The look of distracted infatuation in his eyes is unmistakable.

Harry had to have noticed, and to boot, for whatever reason, the man had nicked a copy of the photo for himself. Harry's interpretation couldn't have erred. Not with the evidence in plain sight. In that one, single, candid instance, the camera had captured Eggsy's secret.

Here it was. Exposed. And Harry had kept it; hidden it away as if it were his own secret to hide.

But he hadn't discarded of it. Instead, he'd stowed it away as some, private, precious memento and Eggsy doesn't dare hope that means what he wants it to mean.

Until now, he'd just about come to his conclusion about the success of the evening's scavenger hunt.

He'd thought Harry's home resembled it's master well enough—in that it's the epitome of gentility with just a flourish of the eccentric, but then he'd decided it was ultimately more of an homage; a tribute to the man Harry endeavoured to present himself as rather than serving as the comprehensive biography he'd truly been hoping to find.

But this new discovery presents its own argument.

It's certainly something worthy of mulling over for awhile, Eggsy sighs, tucking the picture back in its envelope before replacing it right to the same spot he'd dug it out from.

The last place he hasn't yet ventured is Harry's expansive walk-in closet. Once in, his jaw immediately drops in awe. For how ample the space is, there's little room on the racks, and there are _many_ racks. His wardrobe is staggering: there are shirts of all fabrics and colours, bespoke suits of every pattern and texture, cubbies of shoes and a dresser solely for ties alone, dozens of tie clips and cuff links, vast styles of hats, scarves and more coats than any one self-respecting individual should rightly own. Essentially, it houses everything under the sun any sophisticated man of discriminating taste could possibly ever need or want.

Running his hand over the sleeve of one of Harry's coats, Eggsy admires it's handsome cut: the sleek lines, the slate gray—Dagonet does good work, he smiles approvingly, but Eggsy knows, although a good tailor and a good piece of tailoring can make a world of difference, in the end, the suit doesn't wear the man, the man wears the suit. It can only carry him as far as he can carry himself.

Of all the many thoughts he's had about Harry over the past couple hours, he's not sure what's so different about this one, but hot tears are suddenly blurring his vision and the decimated, broken sob that breaks the silence around him sneak up on Eggsy out of nowhere.

The grief is tremendous. It smashes square into his chest and he staggers back from the force as if he'd been physically struck.

“ _You fuckin' liar_ ,” Eggsy chokes out resentfully. “ _You said you'd be back_.”

He doesn't know why he's waiting for a response he knows will never come, but nevertheless, he gives the ghost he's challenging a fair minute to defend himself.

Finally, releasing a long, shaky sigh of resignation, he pull himself back together and decides it's time to retire this whole shit-show for the night.

And then, he looks up, and hanging on the back of the door, he sees Harry's robe.

Almost reverentially, Eggsy removes the article from its hook and brings it up to his face, burying his nose into its folds. It still smells faintly of Harry: like his aftershave and his soap and cologne and whatever that other, intoxicating, underlying scent is that's uniquely _Harry_ and Eggsy all but collapses against the back of the door, overjoyed with relief and a powerful, unexpected burst of lust all at once. It's suddenly all he can do to remain standing.

“ _Harry,_ ” he utters, the name crawling out of his throat in a small, keening whine.

Crushing the thing to his chest, he feels himself shaking with laughter; it's a low, strange, brittle sounding thing he's never heard from himself before; something hardly recognizable and lacking of any self-awareness. And then, he's stripping—tearing off his clothes with frantic desperation.

Afterward, completely naked, wrapped in Harry's robe; _immersed in Harry_ , he stares at himself in the mirror. Draped in the wine red fabric, his hair neatly slicked back— _if he squints_ —it's almost like looking at Harry himself. The rich cloth slides sensually against his bare skin and he groans a little, wondering if the last time Harry had worn it, if he would have been in an equal state of undress underneath. The mere prospect alone skyrockets his blood pressure.

Just imagining sharing such an intimacy, however stolen, however lacking in consent—however wrong or forbidden, makes the whole experience suddenly that much more exhilarating.

A little lightheaded, he pads barefoot out of the bedroom, leaving behind a fast asleep and snoring JB and heads back downstairs.

In a daze, he fixes himself a drink from Harry's bar— _his bar_ and wanders back into the sitting room, sinking down into Harry's sofa— _his sofa._ Eggsy sips his drink and sighs luxuriously as the liquid heat spreads its way through him.

Then, setting the glass down, he closes his eyes, slipping a hand beneath Harry's robe— _his robe_ and wraps his fist loosely around his cock. Pushing down the foreskin pulled tight over his swollen head, he sweeps a thumb over the exposed tip, already damp with a bead of precum. He smears it down over his shaft and when his cock sticks just a little to the inside of the fabric because of this, it occurs to him how likely it might have been that Harry's cock had rubbed just against the same spot.

The self-indulgent fantasy tumbles the groan right out of him.

“What did you think, Harry...when you saw that picture of me?” Eggsy asks the air. “Was it the confirmation you were looking for?”

_It had to be._

Eggsy shuffles down further on the cushion, stroking himself leisurely. “You had the facts, mate. Hell, you have 'em right here,” he points out breathlessly, his tone verging on confrontational. “So what are you gonna do about it?”

And then, Harry is there inside of his ear— _answering._

 _'I'm going to strip you bare, as you've stripped me.'_ The reply is laden with a thrilling, toothy danger and Eggsy trembles, gripping himself tighter, imagining it's Harry's palm wrapped around him—or that he's Harry taking himself in hand—pleasuring himself, thinking about all the ways he'd fuck Eggsy into oblivion—

 _'And then, dearest, I'm going to shove you down on the bed,'_ Harry promises, _'And fuck you right into the mattress.'_

“Oh, _fuck yes,_ ” Eggsy stutters out.

_'Is that what you want from me?'_

“ _Yes,_ Harry.”

 _'Show me. Let me see you, Eggsy,_ ' Harry orders and Eggsy, eager to comply, quickly and a little clumsily yanks undone the tie around his waist and pulls open the front of his robe, exposing himself from head to toe. Glancing down at himself, at his own hand bearing the man's signet ring, it's easy to imagine it's Harry's instead and just the image of Harry touching him like this brings him closer to the edge than he'd thought he was.

 _'My beautiful boy,'_ Harry admires. _'Who do you belong to?'_

“You, Harry. It's always been you,” he gasps, “I'm _yours. Just yours._ ”

Eyes shuttering shut, he pictures Harry: he's still dressed but his jacket and his tie are off and his shirt is open at his collar—his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows exposing the lean, strong muscle of his forearms and his trousers tent at his groin. Eggsy imagines the man cupping his erection right through the fabric, massaging himself just for a shred of relief as he watches Eggsy come apart at the seams under his steady hand.

His fist is flying now, pumping his cock until it's dribbling down the sides with his excitement.

 _'Come for me, Eggsy,'_ Harry instructs, and Eggsy lets out a shuddering moan, canting his hips forward, bucking up into his hand— _'Come for me, my dear boy.'_

One last thrust is all it takes and then he's convulsing wildly out of his seat as waves of hot white pleasure shoot out from his groin, immolating through him like a wildfire through fields in a drought.

“ _Harry-_ ” Eggsy shouts, climaxing hard. Hot jets of ejaculate shoot from his cock, landing with a wet slap across his stomach and he pulls himself through the last pulse of it, shaking uncontrollably.

When he's somewhat coherent enough to, he stares down at the wrecked, boneless mess of himself.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Eggsy mutters, dumbstruck.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

“ _Fuck_ ,” Harry gasps, collapsing back in his seat in wrecked, breathless astonishment.

For a long moment, all he can do is sit there, immobile and spent, his hand still stuffed down the front of his trousers wrapped around his now wilting cock; both covered in the damning evidence of his voyeurism.

He should have respected the young man's privacy. He should have killed the feed. He should have done many things.

What he should _not_ have done, is taken advantage of the situation.

Disgusted with himself, Harry closes his laptop.

The thing is, he'd spent so many years constructing such a solid fortress around his heart, and then, Eggsy had simply breezed right in and bulldozed all Harry's hard work right to the ground.

It had been such a helpless feeling to recognize—not only the inevitability of his burgeoning and terribly inappropriate feelings, but to also realistically grasp the impossibility of their reciprocation.

Most of the time, he could endure it; deny it—pretend it was only a passing fancy, something he'd eventually get over.

But then, after spending any time within the presence of that handsome, enchanting young man's company, his resolve would weaken, and before he could do anything too incredibly stupid, he'd wrench himself away and drown his self-loathing in a finger or two of scotch.

 _Pathetic old man,_ he'd think to himself, heart aching wretchedly, _look at what you've become._

Then, he'd avail himself of the only outlet he'd had to keep himself sane: fantasy.

Secreted away in the privacy of his mind, Harry had kept a vision of Eggsy: happy and his. This Eggsy's smiles meant exactly what Harry longed for them to mean.

It was an impractical, unproductive pursuit and it had served as much solace as injury, but Harry had lived long enough to learn that denial is even more debilitating, and so, he'd carried on this way.

And then, he'd almost died. Nearly dying, he'd discovered, was one of those profoundly life altering experiences that had a way of rearranging one's priorities.

Even if Harry had no certainty of Eggsy's response, he was determined to, at the very least, confess to the young man the depth of his regard (if not the nature of it). Fortunately, his 'death' presented a method of doing so.

What a bewitching thought it had been: lovely, gorgeous, wonderful _Eggsy,_ enmeshed so thoroughly in every aspect of his life; so many miles away, but in this respect, still within reach, living comfortably in Harry's own home, sprawling all over his furniture, sitting in _his_ chair, drinking _his_ tea, _dear God,_ sleeping in Harry's own _bed._.. what guilty, exquisite pleasure he'd felt at the intimacy of it.

The ill-conceived scheme ought to have been aborted in its conception, and frankly, Harry had been a bit surprised Merlin hadn't. Instead, level-headed, pragmatic, _rational_ Merlin had been quietly supportive, as if he'd foreseen some kind of possibility in the future where such an arrangement could serve some advantage.

Then, something about Eggsy's performance in the field had waved all the red flags and Merlin had sent him for testing. Although he'd passed, Merlin still had raised his doubts to Harry and then assigned him the task of intermittently watching the young man, knowing that he'd be certain to devote himself to the task.

Although Harry's present circumstances make it impossible for him to serve as the acting Arthur, he and Merlin both are well aware he's meant to take up the role when he returns. As Arthur, it's his duty to ensure his agents are fit for the field. He supposes Merlin's of the mind that if anyone should be the most reluctant to put an emotionally compromised agent back into the field— _back in harm's way,_ it would be the one with the most professional investment in the matter.

Only, Harry knows they both know his is of an _emotional_ investment in the actual man rather than the agent.

If he couldn't be with Eggsy, he'd reasoned, he could at least protect him from afar. And maybe, he'd thought, if he does make it home, they could, at the very least, salvage their friendship.

However, that hope had died in his chest the instant he'd watched Eggsy head toward his bureau.

Choked with dread, he'd watched the young man pull out the God forsaken snapshot.

 _How could he have been so careless?_   He should have instructed Merlin to remove it. Certainly that small embarrassment would have been worth it to avert _this_ disaster.

One look, and Harry knew Eggsy would piece it together. How could he not? It was all so _terribly obvious._ Harry barely had managed the courage to keep watching, terrified of that second he knew he would see that beloved face pinch with disappointment.

Of course Eggsy would be disappointed. Harry's inconvenient feelings would destroy the purity of the lad's innocent devotion for his mentor.

 _Oh, but he would be kind, though, wouldn't he?_ _He would kill Harry with his kindness._ Harry could see it all: Eggsy would never quite be comfortable around him again always knowing how Harry wanted him. He would be _so fucking sympathetic_ in his  _fucking pity_  and every dream Harry had ever cherished (even modified as they are) would be dashed.

Still, he couldn't tear away his eyes, fixed to his own impending ruination and he was helpless to stop it. Just a ghost hovering on the other side of a screen, separated by miles of cabling beneath the vast ocean. He could kill the current. Kill the feed. He didn't have to watch. But, Harry had watched anyway.

Instead of looking instantly disgusted, Eggsy's brow had knit with confusion, and for a second, Harry had thought he'd been saved.

See, he remembers that day when Merlin had taken the picture. All morning, Harry had tagged alongside Merlin overseeing the progress of the candidate's training routines. He'd been so entirely consumed watching Eggsy, he hadn't realized the young man had noticed until Eggsy had finally looked back at him, regarding Harry inquisitively, and sheepishly, Harry had ducked his eyes, averting his gaze elsewhere, as if something more interesting had caught his interest (as if such a thing could even exist).

After awhile of this scenario repeating itself, Harry had espied Eggsy's puckish grin and realized the lad had made a game of it. Sportingly, Harry indulged him. They carried on like this: Eggsy peeking up at him and then when caught, would look away again and vice-versa.

“It's like trying to herd cats,” Merlin had grumbled. “I don't get it. They're perfect soldiers one minute and then the next, the second I pull out the damned camera they scatter off.”

But finally, in a team effort, the two men had managed to corral the group. Harry had stood off to the side to let Merlin take the picture, and then he'd caught sight of Eggsy. It was just after practice and he was still glowing with sweat and flushed in the cheeks. The sight had been...arousing.

And then, Eggsy had caught his gaze and held it.

There was a flash.

The picture was done and the young man had been startled out of whatever thoughts had been brewing and Harry had never been more grateful. Eggsy, as young men are wont, promptly seemed to forget about the whole thing, much too distracted by everything else.

Harry, definitely had kept a copy of the picture. Merlin was neither surprised nor impressed by the fact.

Those flushed, rosy cheeks, that tight shirt glued to his torso with sweat, those sparkling blue-green eyes—the image had given Harry more than a bit to work with in the privacy of his bed at night.

What secret, guilty, glorious shame Harry had always felt, spending himself to the picture.

And then, there Eggsy was, holding the evidence. Still, he hadn't looked dismayed, had he?

No. Instead, his confusion had given way to understanding. And that understanding had looked strangely close to satisfaction.

Harry hadn't known what to make of it.

And then, he'd watched Eggsy's sudden meltdown in his closet.

Harry hadn't entirely believed Merlin's suspicions, but no doubt could remain in his mind after having observed that. Behind closed doors, to put it mildly, the boy is troubled.

It had been horrendous to witness, but as helpless as Harry had felt, unable to comfort the young man, and uncomfortable as he was to admit, he was also relieved. Eggsy's devastation was hard evidence that Harry had meant a great deal to him.

Harry knows he is many things, and many of those things aren't very nice, but he has little use for lying to himself.

Even if Eggsy's infatuation-with-teacher was only some passing fancy, even if it were nothing romantic or even _sexual_ in nature, the evidence that he longs for Harry as deeply as Harry longs for him (again, even if it's within a different context), is gratifying.

Unfortunately, due to the camera's angle facing inward, he hadn't been able to see what had happened next. But then Eggsy was walking out of his closet in _Harry's robe,_ and his heart practically stopped in his chest.

 _The dear boy_ , he'd thought with an affectionate smile; utterly touched.

What he'd witnessed next had and would, Harry knew, change _everything._

He could barely believe it: Eggsy, reaching between his legs, taking himself in hand. Bringing himself off in Harry's robe, on Harry's couch, in Harry's house with Harry's name on his lips.

Harry had never come so hard in his life.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

“Sideline him.”

Merlin steeples his hands and presses them over his mouth in a troubled, contemplative silence as he absorbs Harry's recommendation.

“On what grounds?” he eventually asks.

“ _Enough._ ” There is a note of reluctance in Harry's enigmatic reply and Merlin frowns, rubbing his forehead as he feels the onset of a headache forming. “That's not good enough. In case it's escaped your notice, we hardly have the resources.”

“Can we not dip into the reserves?”

Merlin gapes at him. “ _What bloody reserves?_ We've recruited all available runners up, never mind their ineligibility, never mind honoring tradition or _protocol-_ ”

“All technicalities,” Harry reasons. “Dire times call for dire measures.”

“We've got three new seats alone, aside from Lancelot and Galahad. _That's a bloody record,_ ” Merlin exclaims. _“_ We're operating round the clock. Full deployment. I'm tapped out on this end, Harry. You know I respect your instincts, but instincts alone won't serve. I can't, in good conscience, decommission an agent without just cause.”

“You mean evidence,” Harry interprets.

Merlin stares at him. “ _Concrete evidence,_ ” he edifies, exasperated.

“It's always been within Arthur's rights to make an executive decision.”

Merlin scoffs, shaking his head; his face darkening with anger. “Are you deaf or just daft? You're apprised of the situation—the current state of affairs here. It's a fucking nightmare. A veritable police state.”

_And holy Christ, is it ever._

Kingsman is, in essence, a non-profit organization. By nature of this, in order to run an effective operation, it requires funding. Working outside of Government purview as well as undercover, acquisition of these funds must be garnered from a discreet, private sector. The nature of this type of sponsorship is that it relies on donation, however, not every donation is made charitably.

While there is no monetary return expected, there is the occasional subsidy that comes with a caveat—entitling the donor certain liberties—certain _privileges_ they can exploit, using their continued support as leverage.

Decades of nurturing such arrangements had inbred a natural degree of nepotism favoring Chester King's claim to the throne. As Arthur, King's sphere of influence had been a vast one and under his management, backed by the loyal patronage of his many rich and high-powered benefactors, Kingsman had flourished.

Thus, over the years it had not been an uncommon experience for Merlin to find the occasional personal favour or cover-up land in his inbox. Part and parcel to the job, there is an expectation for not only discretion, but a requisite degree of moral flexibility.

Although Merlin routinely struggled with his personal reservations, he'd still felt justified in the conviction he was serving the greater good overall.

Functioning outside the limiting constraints of bureaucracy, in many respects, Kingsman had a proven track record of success, securing its position as the superior operation to any of its competitors. Merlin had bore personal witness to the frustration of red-tape that had always throttled the effectiveness of MI6, so while he'd never much cared for the shady politics involved in Kingsman's maintenance, (particularly in Chester King's approach), he'd always grasped the necessity of what needed to be done.

Then, in the wake of V-Day, Kingsman found itself not only without King, but sans nearly a third of its Board. This aired several decades' worth of dirty laundry and appalled, the rest of the Board members had launched a McCarthyesque witch hunt to weed out whatever other corruption had infiltrated during King's reign.

Even while Merlin himself wasn't exempt from the microscope, he still supported the effort. Which was why, taking matters into his own hands, he'd launched his own private investigation. Personally, he was of the mind that King's less than savoury methods of accounting and his less than surprising alliance with Valentine were the least of Kingsman's concerns. King's misconduct he feared, had resulted in something far more insidious: a leak. In quiet contact with his Statesman counterpart in the US, Merlin had caught wind of such a trail; volatile information that threatened the very integrity of their entire operation secretly swapping hands and bank accounts in the dead of the night.

Harry's death, as it turned out, served as a brilliant cover and he'd set him loose on the scent.

In the meantime, Merlin was forced to endure the insufferable imposition of the Board's newest implementation of suffocating rules. Rules which posed constant hurdles and headaches for him at every turn.

“Put yourself in my shoes, Harry,” Merlin sighs. “I've got the entire Board breathing down my neck 24/7.”

Harry scowls. “Need I remind you, Merlin, you set me to this task yourself. You wanted my opinion-”

“I need more than your _'opinion'_. I need footage. Documentation. Tangible proof,” Merlin huffs, his temper flaring. “If you can't supply me something to work with, I can't make a good case.”

Watching the other man pause to consider this gives him hope Harry's seen the light—up until the moment he speaks, of course.

“No.”

Merlin gapes at him in disbelief. “What? Why?”

“This entire endeavor has already far surpassed ethical conduct. In good conscience, I cannot fathom betraying a fellow agent's privacy in any further fashion than I've already done.”

“Even if it's for his own well-being?”

Harry sucks in a breath. “Even then.”

“Then what you're asking is unreasonable,” Merlin points out.

“What you're demanding from me is unreasonable,” Harry counters.

“Oh, grow up you petulant old infant. That's completely illogical. If there is plausible cause to investigate an agent's fitness, then nothing I'm requesting is outside acceptable parameters.”

“Standard procedure does not sanction spying on an agent in their home. Evidence can only be obtained and submitted by a determination drawn from either psychiatric evaluation or failure in the field or a combination thereof.”

“Thank you for quoting the regulations at me, regulations I helped write nearly twenty years ago,” Merlin reminds him curtly. “Wipe that smug look off your face. You forgot the addendum which explicitly allows the exception in the case an agent appears to pose a threat to himself or the organization.”

Harry expression remains determined and Merlin's eyes narrow. “You forget, old friend, how long I've known you. I've only ever seen you stick so stubbornly to your scruples when you fret you have something personal at stake.”

“Eggsy is a good agent,” Harry defends cautiously, somewhat averting the question implied. 

“I've never posed argument against the fact.”

“ _However_ , any non-biased party, supplied with certain evidence, would be inclined to challenge that.”

Merlin frowns. “Let's disregard the fact that if I had wanted to, I could easily override your passwords and access the footage for myself.”

“I would beg you not to, but I'm already a step ahead of you.”

“You deleted it,” Merlin surmises.

“Clean-wipe of the hard-drive of any hint,” Harry proudly reports.

Merlin's impressed. “Just as I taught, you sly bastard. Well done.”

“I'm appealing to you as your friend, Merlin. For my sake, trust me when I tell you, I've seen enough to convince me that you were right. It would be unwise—dangerous even, to send him back out. At least until he's had some time.”

“Survivor's guilt? PTSD? What are we looking at Harry? What kind of time frame? ”

“Nothing permanently prohibitive. A month tops.”

“Not feasible,” Merlin argues. “Another day at best.”

Harry's crestfallen expression breaks his heart a little. “I won't let anything happen to him. You have my word. But Harry, my hands are tied. I can't sideline him, however, in the interim, what I can do, is put him on a few cakewalks—a few shadowruns. Until he otherwise proves fit.”

“He'll get impatient.”

“He very well might, but if he's clever enough to fake the psych evals, he'll be clever enough to know the missions I'll be giving him are probationary. You better bet he'll be on best behaviour.”

“I expect that will likely be the case,” Harry cedes, bowing his head.

It's a workable solution.

Once the matter is settled, Merlin slams down the rest of the contents of his mug and properly caffeinated he strikes out onto the day, ready to tackle the heavy workload he knows will be waiting for him on his desk the second gets into the office.

What he doesn't expect, is Tristan perched on the edge of said desk waiting for his arrival.

“Merlin. About bloody time,” the agent remarks, sliding off gracefully to his feet.

“I beg your pardon?” Merlin squints, closing the door behind him.

"I said, it's about bloody time," Tristan repeats. 

Baffled, Merlin sets down his briefcase and folds his arms across his chest. “Is there something I'm meant to help you with?”

Tristan shrugs. “I hope so,” he remarks with a small grin.

 _That isn't vague,_ Merlin snorts to himself. 

“Are you well?” he prompts apprehensively.  

“Not a thing amiss. Well, not entirely.”

Merlin pulls a hand over his head, growing more impatient by the second as he stares between the agent and the daunting pile of folders stacked on the center of his desk behind the man. “Are you not meant to be on a plane to Moscow by now?”

Tristan waves his hand dismissively. “Not for another hour. Which should give us ample time, I'd think.”

Merlin blinks at the agent with a bewildered frown. “What are you on about, man? 'Ample time' for _what_?”

Tristan laughs softly, shaking his head. “To kiss me goodbye, you idiot.”

Merlin glares at him irately. “I'm not laughing,” he points out.

“I'd rather be offended if you were,” Tristan remarks, “Seeing as how we've been dating for over three months and you've barely seemed to notice. Let alone call me for the past two weeks—which, to be fair, is perfectly forgivable considering the obvious. However, as I'm to be off soon, I thought it high time I draw your attention to certain aspects of this relationship left in sore neglect.”

 _Relationship?_   Utterly blindsided, Merlin gawks at the other man stupidly. Playing back what he can recall of any of the past three months prior to V-Day, granted, he had occasionally agreed to join the agent for dinner a few times. One or two drinks, perhaps.

But Merlin had been so busy. There had been the trials and the training of the new candidates— _had he really not noticed?_ _Could he really have been so obtuse?_

Tristan was one of those agents who rarely stuck out. He'd always been highly capable in the field, never the one for foolish, attention-grabbing stunts—never requiring additional assistance. From all their interactions, he'd always come off as modest and polite. Reserved to a fault.

Merlin had always respected the man. Tristan was intelligent; naturally adept with advanced tech in a way that had given him the occasional cause to wonder if he might have missed the boat recruiting him into his department. He'd thought, with a little gentle persuasion he might convince the man to eventually put in for a transfer—Merlin would have been more than thrilled to offer his referral.

Tristan was the last agent Kingsman had recruited right before the former Lancelot and Merlin had at least a decade on the man. Not to mention, he'd been hard pressed _not_ to notice, how incredibly handsome he was, in one of those understated ways that attractive people tend toward when they know they're attractive and don't need to draw more attention to the fact. Tristan could have his pick of partners and Merlin would never have thought of himself as being a prospect. It would have eluded the realm of possibility to _even consider_.

And well, _if he's being perfectly honest with himself_ , that spot in Merlin's life had been fairly occupied by a very long, monogamous marriage with Harry.

There were times they had skirted around the edge of something a little less platonic, but nothing ever had come of it.

He'd heard all the whispers. He'd endured the gossip and rumours and suffered the interminable ribbing and jokes for decades: it was a well known, poorly kept secret that he and Harry were close and that there was something possibly more to it than they let on. Which is why he'd never expected any colleague to ever show any sign of interest in him. Not only had he never been very approachable, but he was taken. Even if it had never truly been the case (at least in the way the others suspected) frankly, Merlin had always considered himself to be regardless.

Because, admittedly, Merlin had pined for something just a little beyond friendship with Harry for ages, and as utterly enmeshed in each other's lives as they so often were, it was sometimes rather hard to remember they weren't more than that.

But then, as fond as he is of Harry, the man has always been such a vastly difficult, impossible creature that Merlin sincerely doubts taking that extra step would have improved upon what they already had _and_  what they have, is to date, the single most defining relationship of his life.

Merlin couldn't for the world risk ruining it.

And then of course, Harry had gone and fallen tits over tail in love with a lad half his age and just as every bit as impossible as himself. Merlin had seen it coming before either of them had. The stolen glances, the shy, saccharine smiles...

To his surprise, he didn't resent Eggsy. _Oh_ , he was tremendously _jealous_. How couldn't he be? Every time Harry spoke of the lad it was with such heart-aching warmth and admiration. Coming from _him_ , that said a lot. Merlin had known Harry since they were both young men, and never had he seen him this gone on anyone.

It's kind of a horrible thing, really. 

Because, in the end, Harry is the love of Merlin's life and Merlin expects he'll someday be his Best Man at Harry's wedding. What a terrifying, lonely moment it had been when the idea had first popped into his head. He'd pictured watching Harry take the love of _his_ life in his arms and he'd pictured himself slinking back to the bar to drown his defeat.

What he hadn't envisioned, was joining him on the dance floor with _Tristan, of all people._

And all of the sudden, the image paints itself surprisingly easily in his mind's eye as the man in question approaches him carefully with a small, hopeful smile and the kindest, (and prettiest) eyes Merlin has to admit he's ever seen. It's quite the unexpected revelation.

“Perhaps I ought to have been more up front with you from the start,” Tristan explains. “So, Merlin... _Mark,_  here's me being up front with you. I've admired you for awhile. I wasn't sure if I stood a chance, but I thought I had to take a shot. What do you say?”

Merlin finds himself grinning.

“I say we have less than an hour before you have to pack off, so what the fuck are you dawdling for? Get over here and kiss me.”

Tristan as it turns out, is more than just a hell of a good kisser. Merlin has never fantasized about taking anyone over a desk before—but then he's never exactly been given the opportunity.

The fact that it goes this far is because frankly, Tristan makes a good point: they _have_ after all, apparently been dating for three months and it's a lot better way to start a morning than diving right into paperwork.

“Harry.”

“Merlin?” Harry asks, surprised to find himself talking to him so soon again after their last call. “Is everything alright?”

“I just had a question for you.”

“Yes?” He asks uncertainly.

“What are your thoughts on Alec?”

“Ah,” Harry replies too knowingly for Merlin's taste. “So Tristan finally made a move?”

“How long have you known?”

“I only suspected.”

“And you couldn't have bloody said something? Perhaps clued me in?”

Harry sighs. “I was certain the matter would sort itself out,” he replies evenly.

“Well, the matter certainly unsorted a good deal of paperwork.”

There's a long silence over the line and Merlin almost wishes they were on their laptops so he could see Harry's expression.

“I take that to mean you've desecrated the sanctity of Arthur's desk,” Harry chuckles. “I would congratulate you, but as that will eventually be _my_ desk you've rolled your arse over, I do hope you'll take the proper measures to ensure it's in tip-top condition before my return.”

“Ah, fuck off, you old twat,” Merlin retorts affectionately.

Harry laughs. “Same to you, dearest.”

Merlin's good mood doesn't even falter as he spends the next hour and a half merely re-organizing the mess before tackling it. 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

The final day of his mandatory break rolls by in a daze. There is lazy sort of apathy to the way time ticks by when the day lacks any agenda.

Eggsy feels as listless as the morning looks: the clouds are heavy and low in the sky and the light filtering in through the curtains casts long, sleepy shadows. He gives into their spell, drifting off into short, dreamless spurts of sleep until sleep eventually makes itself elusive. 

He supposes he could stay in bed all day, but JB will eventually need to go out and be fed, and so he reasons he may as well get up, however, for no fault save his own dull outlook and lack of inspiration, he finds very little of interest to occupy the time.  

Books are pulled from their shelves without consideration for their titles or contents, sifted through unfocused. Their words blur on the pages; trivial and transient glyphs that slip through Eggsy's brain like silt sifting through cracks.

Sometimes he suspects all the lost words, missed moments and time taken for granted eventually wind up in the same place in the mind; like an orphanage for regrets.

He'd burn it down if he ever found it.

As the afternoon settles in, he grazes through the kitchen, but he has little appetite. He hardly makes a dent save for too many pots of wasted tea. Too many cups end up misplaced or forgotten and when found again their contents have usually long since gone cold.

Eggsy feels cold.

Everything around him is faded and fallow; desaturated of life and colour as he haunts aimlessly through the house. He's not altogether sure he's even there, or anywhere for that matter. It's as if he's only half real, as if there are gaps between his atoms.

He feels a little like someone's hung a vacancy sign where his soul should be. 

This is why it's not terribly difficult to ignore the missed calls and delete the voicemails without listening to them first. It's why it takes so little effort to divorce himself from the trappings of his past.

His past is no longer relevant. It's incompatible with his present and he sheds the weight of it, leaving it behind in the boxes he has no intention of unpacking, tucked away to be forgotten behind the coats in the front hall closet.

When he looks in the mirror, he can't reconcile what he sees now from who he once was. It's like a vague, distant memory lost behind a hazy veil in the back-most recesses of his mind.

When dusk falls, he raids the medicine cabinet and finds exactly what he's looking for. He downs the sedatives with the rest of his scotch and drifts off to sleep in a fog.

The next morning he stirs before dawn with no lingering recollection of any dreams and a tight knot of excitement tingling through to his finger tips; today he returns to the field. Today, once more, he's _Galahad._

_"It's alive!" Frankenstein shouts as his monster wakes!_

Eggsy grins to himself. It's an apt comparison. 

Harry's suits— _Galahad's suits_ fit him nearly perfectly when he tries them on. The trousers are a little long, but nothing that can't be hemmed. In the mean time, he has a few pairs that will suffice from his own meager set, tailored for him by Dagonet, but Galahad's wardrobe is a complete collection he means to make use of.

Besides, donning Galahad's armour honors his legacy.

When he puts on the glasses (careful not to switch them on by accident), slicks back his hair just so and fastens on his tie clip, he can hardly look at himself in the mirror without his heart racing.

Galahad looks back at him; confident and powerful.

When he takes off the suit coat and vest and replaces it with the beige cardigan, _Harry_ looks back at him; kind and relaxed. He imagines this is how Harry would look on a lazy Sunday afternoon. Eggsy would curl up right beside him on the couch with JB at their feet and they would read the newspaper together and sip tea, have a laugh over something silly and mundane, simply happy for each other's company.

Harry's warm, brown eyes would be soft and his kisses would taste of bergamot.

Stripping the cardigan off again, in just his shirtsleeves, Eggsy pulls out the knot in his tie and slips it off from around his neck.

“My dear...” he hears himself utter, staring at his reflection uncertainly in the mirror. “My dear,” he tries again, more clearly this time, enunciating the words in Harry's crisp, aristocratic accent.

“My _dear._ My _darling..._ my darling boy,” the words fall off his tongue and they feel a little foreign at first. A little hesitant and he can't quite get the inflections right.

“Eggsy. _Eggsy, my darling. My dearest,_ ” Eggsy says to himself, his tongue finally finding synchrony with his lips; his mouth forming each syllable carefully as he matches the tone of that beloved, remembered voice.

“Eggsy, _my darling boy,_ ” _Harry_ says to him, exactly as he would.

Just hearing it said out loud elicits a guttural, wanton moan from somewhere deep inside and trembling, he sinks down to his knees in front of the mirror. _Oh, Harry._

He palms himself over the front of the trousers, swelling with excitement. _It's Harry touching himself, thinking about Eggsy, wanting him desperately._

He gives himself another minute to revel in the thought and pushes himself back up.

Stripping off the rest of his clothes, he folds them reverently over the bed and pulls on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt.

When he's finished feeding JB, he goes out for a run. The sun is low on the horizon and the street lamps still cast a hazy glow through the morning fog. The cool breeze hits his face and he loses himself into a blissful trance fueled by a rush of endorphins and adrenaline.

Afterward he heads back upstairs for a shower. Steam billows around him as Eggsy steps into the stall and he closes his eyes, tilting back his head under the spray, luxuriating in the bliss of hot water lifting the tension out from his shoulders. As he lathers himself down, he can imagine Harry's lithe, athletic form, corded with strong, solid muscle beneath his hands—that it's Harry's cock that fills against the inside of his fist—it's Harry's moans of encouragement he hears echoing off the walls.

 _He's Harry_ , pumping himself leisurely, bringing himself off.

“ _Fuck yes,_ ” _Harry_ utters in a low, shattered groan, as he busts his load over the tiles.

Eggsy drags in a long breath of the humid air through his nostrils as he comes back to himself, inhaling the satisfying sharp scent of his own cum mixed with the fragrant, masculine aroma of Harry's soap.

When he finally deems himself presentable, he stands once more before the mirror. He sweeps a hand down the front of his jacket to smooth out the creases and straightens his collar. Breathing evenly, he focuses his energy and plants his feet a hips' width apart, balancing his center of gravity.

Watching himself carefully in the mirror, he auditions through a series of expressions and when he satisfied by their nearly identical resemblance to Galahad's, he at last approves of the finished product and decides he's ready.

He's even a little early.

“Enter,” Merlin bids.

Eggsy strolls into Arthur's office and Merlin eyes him warily, as if seeing a ghost. _Good._

“Take a seat, Galahad,” he instructs.

Eggsy does as he's asked and looks across at the other man calmly composed; demonstrating an air of confident professionalism.

“Are you well?”

“Fit as a fiddle,” He smoothly replies with a practiced, pleasant smile.

“It's a relief to hear as much,” Merlin tells him. “I have an assignment for you.”

Eggsy opens the folder and reads the mission details. When he's finished he looks back up at Merlin with a tight, frustrated frown. “This is a shadowrun.”

“Even so, they need to be done by somebody,” Merlin is quick to defend.

Eggsy isn't impressed. “Underwhelming, Merlin,” he sighs. “Surely I've proven myself beyond this.”

“There's no bias,” Merlin assures him. “Missions are assigned by availability. First come, first serve. Standard procedure.”

“Then we've adopted a new standard. We're _specialists_. I was under the impression we were to be appointed assignment by qualification,” Eggsy disputes skeptically.

“I grant you this is deviation from our typical method,” Merlin reluctantly agrees, “But we must respect the circumstances-”

Eggsy frowns, pushing the folder back across the desk. “This is a low priority case.”

“You just returned from a challenging stint, consider this a brief vacation,” Merlin snaps, his tone short.

“I see. Clearly my competency is what's in question here. Baffling considering the results from my recent evaluations, which if I understood you correctly, were perfectly acceptable,” Eggsy remarks slyly. “And, running the risk of sounding immodest, I would also point your attention to the fact that my latest mission met with some success.”

The last bit's an understatement and they both know it. “Would I be wrong to assume you'd share that assessment?” he asks, fixing his shrewd gaze across at the other man.

Merlin's eyes narrow as he peers over the tops of his glasses back at him, his mouth a stern, thin line. “You forget your place. I'm your director. This is _my_ office. You have no authority to question my orders,” he rebukes. “You have a choice, Galahad, you may either accept the mission I've assigned you or I can show you the door.”

“That doesn't leave many options,” Eggsy concedes. He doesn't mean for it to come out as flippant as it does.

“It certainly doesn't,” Merlin confirms. “Do you know what that door means, lad? It means you'll be stripped of your seat. Do you think that would serve in any way to honour the memory of your predecessor?”

The last bit's unduly severe and Eggsy flinches, suddenly reduced to his 10-years-old self, in trouble with teacher.

“Understood, Sir,” he mutters, cringing a little as he hears his accent falter, slipping back too easily to his roots. Shame-faced, Eggsy looks down at his knees. “I apologize for any disrespect.”

Merlin nods, coolly accepting his apology and dismisses him.

The mission is complete within two days and Eggsy flies back from Croatia with restored confidence. Still, he's a little reticent to face Merlin again after his scolding; the entire incident was beyond mortifying and he vows to be nothing but perfectly deferential this time around.

“You've done well, Galahad,” Merlin admits. 

“Thank you, Sir,” Eggsy replies, humbly ducking his chin.

Merlin clears his throat. “I want you to understand something, lad,” he prefaces. “Harry was a good friend of mine. Having known him for some time, I can say with absolute certainty he would be proud of you. _I'm_ proud of you.”

Eggsy puffs up a little at the praise. “I appreciate you saying so, Sir.”

“You've managed to accomplish a good deal in a very short time under a great amount of pressure, which is particularly impressive when one takes into consideration your overall inexperience. The same cannot be said for everyone,” Merlin points out. “Now, I've met many agents with great talent and ambition over the years. Those who push themselves too hard too soon, however, don't last. I know you're eager to live up to everything Harry saw in you, but if you mean to fulfill those expectations, you will have to learn to pace yourself, lad. You have many years to prove yourself.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“I know you're informed of the mandatory monthly counseling sessions, but I would also seek to remind you that Kingsman offers more comprehensive services in that department should you ever feel a need to make use of them. There is no shame in accepting additional help. It's not uncommon for many agents here to take advantage of it. The nature of this job can be hard on anyone.”

Eggsy shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Is this an official recommendation?”

“Of course not,” Merlin assures him. “We're not so dissimilar in some respects, you know. I think you're like me in that you don't care much to talk about your personal matters. I get that. But we both suffered the same loss. What I'm trying to say is, if you should ever find yourself thinking you might need someone who understands, you know where to find me.”

It's a well intentioned offer, but not one Eggsy has any intention of making use of.

“Thank you, Sir,” he replies with as much sincerity as he can project. 

Merlin _is_ clever so he's of course, not terribly convinced, but this also means he knows how far he can push a subject and when to let the matter rest.

Eggsy breathes a sigh of relief when there's finally a door between them again.

On his way to pick up JB from the HQ kennels he runs into Roxy just outside.

Her pleased grin lights up her face.

“ _Galahad,_ ” she greets. “How are you?”

“Well enough. And yourself?”

“Positively famished. Care to treat me to lunch, hot shot?”

“ _Hot shot?_ ”

“Well yeah, _hero_ ,” she beams, “Running around saving the world all over the place. Heard a bit in passing about your little excursion to Tunis while I was stuck knees deep in Belarus.”

“Is that right,” Eggsy remarks, disturbed. “And who pray tell, is gallivanting about gossiping about other agent's mission details?”

“Only Percival,” Roxy replies a little hesitantly. “All three of us were working the same cell. Percival just happened to be on the border of Algeria at the time.”

“I don't believe I was made aware of that,” Eggsy informs her evenly.

“It's not that he knew what your orders were, Eggsy,” Roxy defends on her mentor's behalf, “It's just that he was put on clean-up.”

Eggsy isn't comfortable with where this is heading nor the way she's tactfully couching her explanation. He's familiar with the her specializations. Diplomacy, psychology and interrogation and she's highly adept at all three.

“He didn't go into any detail, of course, but there were... a good deal of _casualties._ ” Roxy looks up at him with something approaching guarded sympathy.

Eggsy's smile is tight. “We don't exactly take prisoners.”

“Are you aware of what the textbooks call what you just did? A misdirection. You know perfectly well that's not what I'm getting at.”

He does know what she's getting at. Just like Merlin, she's slow to buy his act.

“It's just... you _are well,_ right?” Roxy asks.

It's becoming increasingly obvious to Eggsy that he's apparently left room to raise some doubt on the matter.

“Did I give you reason to think I was lying the first time you asked?”

Roxy sighs. “You're defensive, that's all.”

“To be clear, _Lancelot,_ you do grasp the absurdity of asking an _assassin_ if he's _alright_ performing his actual job?”

Roxy narrows her eyes at him.“Don't make me out to be some kind of mother-hen, Eggsy. We're friends, I wanted to be sure. That's all.”

“I swear I'm right as rain,” Eggsy replies, edging on exasperated.

“Good, I'm glad to hear it,” she smiles. “Now the matter's settled, will you _kindly_ escort me to lunch?”

Eggsy relents with a courteous smile.

 

\---

 

“What did she say?” Harry asks, frowning.

Merlin grimaces. “She said, _'Galahad_ is _Galahad.'_ ”

"That's redundant."

"That's what I said."

“Start over from the beginning. You said they went out for lunch?”

Merlin drags a hand over his face. “Yes, and afterward, Lancelot came to my office for her debriefing. She told me she ran into your lad at the kennels. She said he was uncharacteristically stand-offish throughout the initial encounter which is unusual, as they had been nearly inseparable throughout training. Then, from her account, he became defensive. She claimed she was only asking after his health, which as you're aware, I'd just done myself.”

Harry's expression is grim.

“It's everything, Harry. It's your attire. Your demeanor. Your formal speech patterns and grammar and accent. It's your bloody voice coming right out of the lad's pipes every damned time he opens his mouth,” Merlin insists. “It's nearly indistinguishable.”

“Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery-”

Merlin scowls. “This isn't flattery nor is it mere emulation-”

“It's no more than rehearsed mimicry,” Harry argues.

“No, Harry. This is cusping on some kind of Dissociative Identity Disorder. I'm beginning to think he's convinced himself he's _you._ He's wearing your suit coat, your ties even —he's taken on your affectations—your habits. Just to provide you with one example, you do this thing with your ring when you're thinking. You twist the band around your finger. _He does that._ ”

“A lot of people do that,” Harry defends blandly. “I think you're blowing this out of proportion. You said yourself it wasn't effecting his performance in the field.”

Merlin shakes his head. “Just the opposite. It seems that even from beyond the grave you're a good influence,” he admits.

“What then precisely is your complaint?” Harry demands.

“It can't sustain. I'd love to believe it could, but I have no faith it will. He will eventually break and when he does, there will be a terrible fallout. I've seen what he's capable of.”

“What do you expect me to do? You've prohibited all contact.”

“We already went over this,” Merlin huffs.

“He would never risk putting me in jeopardy of exposure-”

“Not purposefully, not knowingly, but one slip, Harry. That's all it would take. One accidental inference or misspeak. This is the purpose of interoffice confidentiality. To avoid even the mere possibility. It's not only your life at stake here, it's Kingsman and all its affiliates, all of its donors and employees and their families, too.”

“What would you have me do?” Harry asks helplessly.

“The obvious solution would be to crack down and come home fast, in lieu of that, there will come a time when you will have to release footage.”

Harry laughs darkly. “Well, as Eggsy so eloquently said to you the other day, 'that doesn't leave many options'.”

“It doesn't," Merlin agrees. "But one does wonder, Harry, how bloody bad whatever you're so aggressively hiding actually is."

"I think you would agree, my friend, that some secrets are best kept," Harry replies.

The past few days had been agonizing to witness and he knows to some degree Merlin is right. Eggsy appears to be able to discern between fiction and reality, but there are aspects of himself Harry can see beginning to intertwine too imperceptibly within the young man's own characteristics and the result blurs the lines. 

But then, Harry may as well be a silent, guilty enabler.

How often had he whispered words of encouragement or supplied his own lines to Eggsy's captivating shows? He'd even given him a house and all the clothes to play make-believe in.  

Harry also realizes there's an interesting aspect of narcissism involved. Here he is, lusting after Eggsy as the young man pretends to be him, while, on the other end, Eggsy is doing the same: lusting after the idea of Harry lusting after him  _while pretending to be Harry._  

The problem with this is, Harry is  _not_ in fact, a narcissist. Eggsy is slowly, before his eyes, transforming into this bewildering hybrid version of the two of them and while he makes an exquisite creature, Harry misses the young man he'd grown to care for-- the young man Eggsy seems determined to _forget_. 

All together, it's a veritable clusterfuck of dysfunction that neither of them could live down should anyone else see. Eggsy jealously guards his privacy and Harry is certain that if the young man ever learned that anyone knew what he was doing behind closed doors, (which would be inevitable if there was a hearing), it would devastate him.

Such an exposure would be the worst fathomable violation. The excruciating humiliation alone would be enough, but he would never trust anyone again; _especially Harry._ He would never forgive him. It would destroy any hope for a future together, and now that Harry knows that such a thing is no longer entirely outside the realm of possibility, he can't imagine risking it.   

Harry will protect his beautiful, broken boy at all costs.

He only hopes he can be fixed.  


	9. Chapter 9

Over the next few weeks, Harry throws himself into the mission, determined to get it done with. He makes good headway, finds a promising lead. He sincerely hopes this means he can return home soon.

In his precious little downtime, he spends every spare moment watching Eggsy. If he misses the real-time connection, he replays past footage. It's an addiction. He needs him like air. And when he can't get his fix, the withdrawal is almost unbearable.

Harry can't sleep at night without first watching Eggsy, an ocean away, asleep soundly in his bed back home. He knows it's selfish. Here, he gets to find comfort in the sight of his darling boy, and Eggsy has to go to sleep cold and thinking himself alone.

He takes solace in sharing Eggsy's minor triumphs in the kitchen as he masters Harry's rolodex card-by-card and it gives him inestimable joy to see the young man curled up on his couch in his robe with JB snoring alongside him.

But it's anguishing to watch him every single day and never be able to touch him or so much as speak to Eggsy himself.

How easy would it be to just call him? To tell Eggsy he's alive and that he's immeasurably sorry, and that he'll come home soon. How wonderful would it be to hear his voice, to hear the young man tell him everything he speaks for both of them when he thinks he's by himself?

How magnificent would it be to wrap his arms around him? To feel Eggsy's arms around _him_ , to feel his chin against his shoulder? His lips against his neck? To bury his face in the young man's soft hair and breathe him in?

And then, purely by accident, he'd broken the silence.

Eggsy had just returned home, although he was evidently still on assignment. It must have been local to allow for it. JB of course, as all agent's dogs, stay in the HQ kennels for the duration of every mission.

Harry had watched the young man drag himself through the front door, sagging with exhaustion. He'd stripped off his jacket, tossed it carelessly over the ottoman. His tie and his holster had quickly followed suit. Instead of taking off his suspenders, he'd simply pushed them down over his arms and let the straps hang from their clips and then he'd meandered drowsily into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

While he waited for the water to heat, he'd dropped into the sofa and fallen fast asleep the second his head had hit the armrest. The kettle had whistled until it had gone shrill, until there was nothing left to blow out but steam and then Harry began to feel nervous.

_What if he'd been drugged—or worse, poisoned?_

What he'd done next had been such a careless, knee-jerk reaction.

Harry's fingers had itched over his mobile. He could have called Merlin. He could have called a neighbor even, but he wasn't thinking. He'd panicked, and before he'd realized it, Eggsy had stirred and answered. 

“ _Hullo?”_ He'd mumbled, his voice hoarse from sleep.

Harry had been paralyzed. Unable to respond— _unable to hang up._

“ _Hello?”_ Eggsy had asked again, more alertly this time. Frozen, Harry watched the young man glance at the screen. Of course, there would be no identification. It would show an unlisted number, out of the country. But it would also show up as US.

Eggsy stared at the screen for a long time, eyes widening in disbelief. Harry could hear the young man's breath quickening over the receiver.

“ _Harry?”_ He'd asked quietly and uncertain and very nervous, not daring to hope, but hoping all the same.

And then, instead of feigning some thick American accent and simply telling the young man it was the wrong number he'd hung up instead.

_Damning. Stupidly Damning._

Eggsy had immediately hit redial and all Harry could do was stare helplessly at his mobile as it vibrated angrily along the top of the desk. This had continued several more times until he'd quickly shut off the power before he could give into the overwhelming desire to answer it.

He'd glanced up at his laptop screen and seen Eggsy staring in frustration at his own mobile in his hand as if it had utterly failed him—as if Harry had failed him. Once again.

Neither of them had slept that night. Harry kept a watchful sentinel over the young man as he'd paced around the house, muttering and cursing to himself. The next day, he'd blocked the number to prevent any further calls.

Cutting off even the possibility of contact felt like amputating his heart and Harry had never felt so empty.

Afterward, Eggsy was the model of decorum. Not a toe out of line, as if he'd suspected he was being watched. Occasionally, he'd glance around with a small, paranoid frown and narrowed eyes. There was no more talking to himself out loud. No more playing dress-up and make-believe. He didn't touch himself. He didn't say Harry's name.

Merlin had reported to him that the young man had seemed almost inhuman. He'd complete his missions with deadly, robotic efficiency, return home to eat and sleep and then he'd go back out again. Rinse and repeat.

Harry sighs. It's not as if he has any reason to continue watching Eggsy. There's no point now. The show's over.

Still, it's a hard habit to break.

Right off the bat he notices something different about Eggsy this evening: he seems animated, tense. He's sitting in the kitchen but he isn't sitting in Harry's chair. His fingers are tapping the table nervously, and he looks conflicted, lost in some sort of internal debate with himself.

Harry watches him get up, and when he does, his eyes flick up toward the camera. Harry gasps a little, startled to find Eggsy's eyes focused, as if he's staring directly at him. Then he's removing the tiny camera out of the wall where it had been pretending to be a decorative plant hook and he's holding it out in front of him.

“Harry.”

Harry flinches in horror as Eggsy addresses him.

“In the off chance that you're watching, I just wanted to say, first off, fuckin' hell, mate, what kind of paranoid bastard do you have to be to have your own house so thoroughly bugged? Second of all, I'm guessing if you are alive you 'prolly can't say nothin' 'cause you're on some big top-secret case I take it, right? 'Cause Harry, frankly, that's pretty much the only excuse that makes any sense. Even that's pretty cold. I don't know why you didn't think you could trust me to keep your secret. That shit fuckin' smarts, Harry.”

Eggsy sighs, dragging a tired hand over his face. “But the fact you even called, I guess, that means somethin' don't it? Like, if you can't tell me you're alive—well, that was a pretty big risk you took.”

Harry's heart aches.

“So, the thing is, if it _were_ you that called the other night, well, I 'spose that means you've 'prolly been watchin' for awhile. Guess just to check in on me, right? Makin' sure I don't wreck the place, yeah?” Eggsy's laugh is self-deprecating and a little distraught. “Means you likely saw some shit,” he cringes. “'Prolly pretty freaked out 'bout now. I know I'd be. Can't imagine what you gotta think of me after all that.”

For a moment, he looks so overwhelmed by his own distress it's all Harry can do to just sit here, unable to comfort him.

“Look, I won't blame you if you don't want nothin' else to do with me when you come back. Hell, won't even be mad if you want me gone altogether. It's just, ever since I saw you get shot, I haven't been good, Harry. That shit fuckin' really messed me up.”

Eggsy wipes away angry tears from his cheeks and looks into the camera. “Look, just know I'm grateful for all you done. I really am. Even if it were all just to repay some debt to my dad."

He sucks in a deep breath. "I just gotta ask one last thing. One last favour, Harry, please. Just for me. I know you don't owe me nothin, but I'm goin' mental here. I gotta know I'm not going crazy. Just let me know that was you, Harry. That you _are alive,_ ” he begs brokenly. “Please. You know I won't say nothin'. I swear it on my life, bruv.”

“Just be alive,” he finally whispers. “ _For me, Harry_. Tell me you are.”

And then, Eggsy pushes out of his seat, the chair scraping harshly along the floor as gets up to reinstall the camera.

He watches the young man throw on his jacket and head out for God knows where and Harry turns off the connection. He stares unblinking at the blank screen for ages; nothing but radio silence and the sound of his own heart thudding in his chest.

Eventually, he retires to the small, cold motel-room bed and stares blankly up at the ceiling, watching the dust motes floating over his head and for a long time he doesn't sleep.

He doesn't sleep, but he does dwell on the memory of Eggsy's face desperately pleading for confirmation. 

_'Just be alive, for me, Harry. Tell me you are.'_

Harry would give him anything, but he doesn't know how to give him this. 

After that, for several agonizing days he watches Eggsy spiral dangerously downward.

He's back on a local mission. He suspects Merlin's keeping him close to keep an eye on him, but if he is, he's doing a piss poor job of it.

Every night, Eggsy returns home with scarlet-black bloodstains under his fingernails, radiating with a frenetic, violent energy. It's as if he's finally snapped and Harry knows he's to blame. He's triggered this.

While he has no idea what's exactly brewing behind Eggsy's haunted, manic eyes, he can see he's a man possessed and whatever mission he's been assigned is facilitating as a convenient outlet for his anguish. Harry watches as the young man raids his liquor and medicine cabinets. He watches him drug himself into a hard, comatose sleep then wake every morning from the dead with the same hell-fire burning in his eyes as he throws himself back into the fold, out for blood.

Rinse and repeat.

Fury burns through Harry. It tastes like ash in his mouth. He feels so utterly helpless; unable to protect him, unable to stop him—

Someone has to intercede if Galahad's incompetent handler won't. He wants to strangle the bastard and vows when he returns he'll fire the clod personally. It's almost enough to bring to Merlin's attention, but he knows if he does, that will be it for Eggsy. He'll be sidelined, and Harry knows if he's sidelined, he won't take it well. In his current state, he'll likely find a way to do some kind of harm to himself and Harry refuses to let that happen—refuses to be the cause of that.

What Eggsy is doing is utterly beyond reckless. He's acting like he's invincible; as if he has no sense of self-preservation; as if he isn't bound by the same human limitations as anyone else. He's far surpassed pushing the boundaries of acceptable conduct and what's even more concerning is that Harry can tell by the half-starved desperation in his eyes that the young man knows _exactly_ what he's doing. His poor, stripped down body may be an angry palette of swollen, purple bruises but he isn't punishing himself. _He's punishing Harry_.

He's played his hand and he's waiting for Harry to make the next move. He's given him a proviso:

_Prove to me I'm not mad. Prove to me you're alive._

If anything should happen to him, it will be on Harry's head. 

He's between a rock and a hard place. Harry knows Merlin won't support what he has to do, but there will be time for excuses later.

\--

At first, Eggsy had been half-way convinced he was going insane. He had to be. Almost a month of grieving and obsessing over Harry constantly had finally taken its toll. Harry was _dead._ No way could he have called. It was a misdial. A mistake.

But then, as he'd analyzed the whole thing over again in his head, he'd noticed a few damning details. He'd walked in that night exhausted. He'd put on that kettle and passed out. The shrill whistling should have been loud enough to wake the neighbors but he'd been dead to the world. To anyone looking in, he very well might have looked dead.

It was as if someone had been checking up on him—just to make sure. If it _had_ been Merlin, then surely he could have feigned some reason for the call. Something that wouldn't have made it look so conveniently timed, something that wouldn't have raised any inconvenient questions.

What Merlin wouldn't have done is simply hang up, and the caller ID would definitely not have told him the call had come from the States.

Naturally, this raises another question. In the unlikely chance Harry was alive, how on earth would he have known just then to check in on him?

The revelation is a horrible one: Harry would have had to be _watching him_. Which meant he had some kind of home surveillance set up. To prove his suspicions, Eggsy does a little research. Spends a little time down with the techs. Charms his way into borrowing an adapter. This way he can discover where all the cameras are without appearing obvious about it to anyone on the other end. 

Supplied with the necessary equipment and newly obtained knowledge, he goes on a hunt for the main receiver and locates it just on the inside wall of the closet inside Harry's office.

The light is blinking. The power is on and there's a thick bundle of cables wired in through a small hole in the wall plugged into the box. With his own laptop plugged into the adapter, he then proceeds to plug each cable one-by-one into the other end. This allows him to see what each camera is viewing, and to Eggsy's chagrin, it's a comprehensive, well designed system.

 _Well, if Harry had been monitoring him, the man would have gotten quite the show_ , Eggsy realizes, burning with embarrassment and shame.

He's on best behaviour after that, but all the while, it eats at him.

Finally, he can't help it. If Harry is alive, _if he has been watching,_ he's got to say something. He tries to plan out what he'd going to say, make some kind of excuse to explain himself. He composes an entire speech. He even fucking rehearses it.

But then, when he's actually doing it he naturally falls off script.  _He is talking to Harry after all._

When it's done, it's done. He's asked Harry to give him some sign that he was on the other end, and he genuinely had hoped— _believed with all his might,_ that regardless of how Harry had felt, that if he were actually alive that surely he'd have been _good_ enough to at least take pity and give him some sign.

Days pass with nothing and Eggsy goes a little around the bend. Either Harry's alive and he's too much of a prick to say anything or he _is dead_.

But the fact is, Eggsy has replayed the footage of that day. He'd carefully analyzed every second; paused every frame from the moment Valentine had pulled the trigger. The thing is, there's no blood splatter. That doesn't make _any_ sense. Eggsy knows that at close range, the bullet would not have simply lodged in his brain. It should have penetrated all the way through, come in through his eye and gone out again through the back of his skull. The only thing preventing that from occurring would have been his glasses.

Eggsy goes down to the shooting range at HQ the next day to test the theory. He takes the pair he'd nicked from the tech department labs and puts them on one of the target dummy. Sure enough, the bullet smashes right off the lens and the casing ricochets backward, smacking him hard in the collar bone.

Eggsy's laugh is a little maniacal as he rubs the stinging welt. How Valentine had missed being struck by the thing himself was a lucky save. It's very likely what had saved Harry's life.

When he examines the damage however, he does take into consideration that the man very well likely may have lost an eye. The lens is shattered into a concave bowl but still connected to its reinforced frame. It would have at least been one hell of a sucker punch.

A part of him wants to triumphantly throw down his proof on Merlin's desk. The man had designed the bloody glasses himself. Surely he would know Harry would have survived the shot. Faced head on, case point blank with the accusation, he wouldn't be able to deny it.

Still, Eggsy has his proof and that's enough.

It's just that, after that appeal he'd made to Harry, hearing nothing back from him meant he clearly could care less and that _really_ hurts.

It hurts so fucking much he can barely stand it. He'd laid himself out for Harry. He'd been _so_ honest, and all he'd wanted was a little honesty in return. That's why when Merlin gives him his next assignment he throws himself into the mission as if he's charging into battle. Fortunately, the handler he's given is susceptible to distraction and easy-going with excuses. Eggsy lets himself take a few punches. Just enough to rouse concern should he take off his shirt.

It worked once hadn't it? The first time, Harry had contacted him out of concern, why shouldn't he be able to replicate the situation to gain the same results? 

If Harry were watching, surely he'd step up and finally say something, wouldn't he? Eggsy hopes he doesn't merely go over his head and direct his concerns to Merlin. That would put a hitch in the plan.

But when he neither gets called to Merlin's office nor hears word one from Harry, he all but gives up hope and next time he goes out into the field he abandons all caution; he exercises no restraint and he just barely scrapes himself off the ground to make it to the rendezvous point for extraction.

He hides his limp and puts on a game face for his handler. When he gets home he draws himself a bath and sits in the tub until the faintly blood-tinted water goes cold. Eggsy sucks in a breath as he patches himself up. His rib just over his diaphragm is tender to the touch and swollen hard. Possibly cracked he realizes, wincing. Looking in the mirror at his haggard, battered reflection he heaves a long, weary sigh.

Shrugging on Harry's robe, he drags himself heavy-limbed from the bathroom, and gingerly clutching his ribcage lowers himself carefully into bed with a harsh grunt.

_He can't keep going like this._

“Something's gotta give, Harry,” he mutters, staring over at the side wall where he knows there's a camera.

“Either you gotta, or I'm gonna,” he promises darkly.

The next morning there's a parcel sitting on his door step. He nearly trips over it on his way out.

“What the-” he mutters, baffled. There's no return label. A glance at his watch tells him he's got enough time to check it out. Carrying the package to the kitchen, he digs out his pocket knife and cuts away the packing tape. Inside the box is a book. It's a collection of poetry by Tennyson and there's a blank post-it stuck in the middle. Holding his breath, he turns to the bookmarked page.

Eggsy's eyes go wide as he reads the poem's title:

_Sir Galahad._

Eggsy grins.

 _Well, that's an answer if ever there was one,_ he concedes. 

 


	10. Chapter 10

  
Just because Harry finally caved and sent him a rather obvious sign doesn't mean more than that, he reminds himself. It just means Eggsy's guilt-trip had worked. That's it.

He's overwhelmed with relief to finally have his suspicions confirmed, but it also confirms that  _yes,_  Harry  _has_ been watching him. Which also of course means he  _had_ seen Eggsy's mortifying melt-down. The consequence of which he knows he has yet to look forward to—or more like:  _dread._

He honestly doesn't know what he'll do when Harry comes home, but he supposes he'll have to move.

He does wonder if he should make arrangements for new accommodations in advance, just to be prepared, but that will mean he'll have to talk to Merlin about it and Merlin will  _definitely_  try to needle out a reason, and he really doesn't have a good one.

He'll figure something out. He'll have to.

But then, only about a three weeks later, there's another delivery.

A beautiful pair of gloves just like Harry's own—the ones he'd been wearing ever since he'd first found them, only these fit him perfectly. It's good timing too, considering it's still only early January.

It's a considerate gesture, Eggsy thinks. But at the same time, it could just mean that Harry had seen him wearing his gloves and wanted him to stop. Swallowing down a sudden lump in his throat, he reluctantly pulls them off and frowns. He'd rather his hands freeze than accept some kind of consolation-prize replacement. 

–

Harry frowns as he watches Eggsy repackage his gift and stow it away in the closet. How could he have gotten it so wrong? He'd thought surely he'd appreciate the gloves—they were just like his and the young man had been wearing them for weeks, regardless of the fact that the fingers were too long for his smaller hands. And then, to top it off, he'd left the house, gone out without even Harry's on to protect himself from the blistering cold.

It's incredibly disheartening.

A small part of Harry had secretly rejoiced in the subtextual meaning of the gift as well. Bestowing a pair of gloves to the object of one's affections was an old courtship tradition.

Of course, he'd expected that aspect would go over Eggsy's head and it certainly seemed it had.

Frustrated, Harry wracks his brain. He can do better.  _He will do better._

–

The next item Eggsy receives is a handkerchief. Of course, he already has his own with the Kingsman insignia on it, but this one has a small stitched  _G_ in the corner and there's a note tucked in the folds in tight, clean script: _Wear the gloves._

Eggsy grins. He can take a hint.

“Alright, Harry,” He grins.

_Alright. So maybe he's trying to make amends._

So far, everything he'd received had been locally purchased and there had been no return labels on anything save for other that the addresses of the stores the items had been shipped from. Eggsy has to admit, it's a damned good covert operation Harry's running.

And then Valentine's day rolls around.

The fact that the day shares the same name with the individual who nearly took away the one man Eggsy would have gladly spent the day with leaves him in a foul mood. He imagines it will put a dent in the day for a great many others as well.

Having only returned the day before from a long stint in Belgium, he was glad to be home at least.

Then just as he's about to tuck into some lunch and telly with JB, the doorbell rings. There's a deliveryman holding a small bouquet protected in a cover of crisp, brown paper. He accepts the gift uneasily and takes it inside. Unwrapping it with his heart in his throat, he discovers a bunch of small white flowers.

On the small card post is the description:  _Delphinium 'Galahad'._

Eggsy's smile stretches across his face in amusement.

“Bit ridiculous, mate, but  _thanks,_ ” he tells the decorative plant hook on the kitchen wall, his cheeks warm with a slight blush.  _Harry's given him flowers._ It can't possibly mean what he wants it to mean.

But he'll be damned if it isn't awfully suggestive.

On the inside of the card is another small note in the man's handwriting:  _Dining room buffet. Second drawer. Green box. All the best. Yours, H._

Eggsy mouth parches and his heart nearly stops in his chest.  _Yours._

“ _Yours_ ,” he mouths to himself in a disbelieving whisper.

“ _Damn right, Harry_ ,” he breathes, tears gathering in his eyes. He blinks them back before they have a chance to run over. Wouldn't do to have the man see him weep like some pathetic, love-lorn lass over only a little word.

Besides, there's nothing quite  _explicit_  about it  _per-say_. It's very likely no more than a mere friendly 'yours'. Many people sign their names on cards in such a way. Why should Harry's mean any more than that just because he so desperately wants it to?

Eggsy frowns. Harry ought to be a little more careful if he doesn't want him to get the wrong idea. After all, he knows  _damn well_  how Eggsy feels about him.

That thought in mind, his shoulders sag, and a little sullenly, he goes to the dining room as Harry's directed.

The little green box is just where he'd indicated. Inside is a...

Well, it's a spoon.

But it's not just any spoon. It's smoothly carved wood with a small engraved vine winding up the stem.

Eggsy stares down at it a little skeptically. “Not very useful, are you?” He asks the thing, holding it up to his face to examine it. He turns it over, but there's nothing else. No more clues for whatever it is.

He resolves to ask Roxy later. Good thing she's back around for the day too.

“Got a date?”

“Nope,” She replies.

“Great. Want to be losers together and hit up the pub?”

“Are you asking me to be your  _he-who-shall-not-be-named?_ ” She teases.

Eggsy snorts. “My  _Voldemort?_ ”

“Name of the day takes a bit of the shine out of it this year, doesn't it?” Roxy laughs.

They meet up in town and Eggsy buys first round. “Gotta be  _chivalrous_ ,” he points out when Roxy takes a little offense.

“ _Medieval_ ,” she mutters.

“Aw, come on now, don't be like that, you big grump,” Eggsy laughs, nudging her with his elbow. “You're just salty 'cause you ain't got a real date.”

“Rubbing salt in the wounds, Eggsy,” Roxy grumbles.

“So, mate, I gotta ask you somethin'.”

“Shoot.”

Eggsy takes a drink of his beer. “What's it mean if ya give someone a spoon?”

Roxy stares at him blankly. “Right. What kind of spoon?”

“Like a fancy wooden one?”

A look of comprehension dawns on her face. “ _Oh._ You mean a  _Welsh Love Spoon._ ”

“A  _what're you callin' it?_ ” Eggsy asks perplexed.

“A Welsh Love Spoon. It's a traditional courting gift. A token one would give their intended.”

Eggsy's mouth hangs agape for a moment abd Roxy's eyebrows climb up her forehead in amusement. “Oh my God. Did someone give  _you_  a Welsh Love Spoon? You never said you had an admirer,” she admonishes.

“No, it's not like that. No one gave me nothin'. I'm askin' for a friend.”

Roxy gives him an unconvinced snort. “ _Right._ ”

“No, really. Just a friend got one n' he asked me about it.”

“ _Uh-huh,_ ” she replies, staring at him dubiously. “And what else did this  _friend_  get?”

“N-nothing,” Eggsy answers quickly and possibly far too defensively.

Roxy's skeptical frown is all he gets in return.

“What about you?” He asks, trying like hell to change the subject. “Why're you so mopey? You got your eye set on someone?”

Roxy sighs disconsolately. “Yeah, but it's impossible.”

“How's 'at even so?” Eggsy demands, “Don't mind sayin', but you're a catch. Any bloke would be lucky to have ya'.”

“Kind of you to say,” she smiles sadly. “But he's married.”

“Oh.”

“I always fall for the impossible ones it seems.”

“ _Same_ ,” Eggsy mutters. “Here's to us then,” he says holding up his drink for a toast.

“You know, Eggsy,” Roxy tells him before they're ready to part ways for the evening, “I'm not going to lie to you. I was a little worried about you last time we spoke. You... well. You weren't quite yourself, were you?”

Eggsy shrugs uncomfortably. “Yeah, well. Things were kinda'  _recent,_ yeah?”

“I get it,” She confirms, giving him a hug. “Take care, Eggsy.”

“You too, love,” Eggsy replies, giving Roxy a tight squeeze.

Once he gets back home, he takes the trinket out of its box and stares at it again.

 _A fucking Welsh Love Spoon,_  he thinks to himself.  _What is this supposed to mean, Harry?_

“Look. I don't get it, alright? Roxy told me what it's about, but it's not like that, right?” Eggsy asks the camera he knows is embedded in the mirror frame above the buffet.

Of course he can't mean it, he realizes once he looks inside the inner lid of the box. It's an heirloom. That's all. A token Harry's grandfather, one 'Gerald Hart' had gifted to one 'Josephine Cooper' on 14-2-1933.

Maybe it was a little sentimental to Harry and he only wished to share the sweet bit of nostalgia. After all, he must have known how desperately Eggsy had wanted to get to know his life better.

But the more Harry allows him in, the more he risks Eggsy getting the wrong idea, and for that matter, certainly more attached. It nourishes a hope that he'd be better off letting flicker out.

Still, if he's letting him into his life in this way, it has to be more than some mere apology or concession.

Maybe he really does want to try the whole friendship thing. At least they could have that, Eggsy thinks, staring glumly at the arrangement of Galahads in their vase.

At least he's trying to be sensible about it.

–

Eggsy isn't too wise to woo peaceably. He's too thick-headed, Harry decides, irritably as he places in the custom order to the jeweler. It'll be weeks before the item is ready, but he's got something that needs attending first:

Eggsy's terrible case of misunderstanding. He hopes this time what he's sending will be overt enough.

“Harry, how are things?”

“Making progress, Merlin. How's Tristan?”

“Terrible,” Merlin gripes. “He came back from Australia with the worst head cold. He's currently laid up at mine.”

“Poor thing,” Harry sympathizes.

“Got him on a broth and aspirin, but we're not entirely convinced he's going to make it.”

“Indeed?”

“Quite. If he keeps on bitching the way he is currently, I'll very likely put a pillow over his face and suffocate him in his sleep.”

Harry laughs. “Sounds very domestic,” he muses a little jealously.

Merlin's eyes are soft. “He's lovely. Truly.”

“I'm happy for you,” Harry tells him. He genuinely means it, even if he is feeling a little resentful about his own lonely current state of affairs.

“I've noticed a recent change for the better in your lad. Well not so recent, but a gradual improvement anyway. It is a marked one, however, and I couldn't help but wonder why.”

“How should I know?” Harry defends with as much innocence as he can muster.

“I'm sure you still occasionally look in on him. Surely if you would have noticed anything you would have shared?”

Harry shrugs. “I'm sure I would have.”

Merlin narrows his eyes at him suspiciously. “I'll accept your answer. For now, Harry. But don't think for even one second I won't eventually figure out what you're up to.”

“I have no doubt of it,” Harry smiles evenly.

–

Shakespeare's Sonnet 57 is a pretty sounding piece of work, but Eggsy's always been rubbish at the Bard.

Still, he likes his new silk tie well enough. It's diamond-patterned with silver and a blue the same shade as his own eyes. _It really makes 'em pop_ , he thinks, admiring himself in the mirror.

Okay. So a part of Eggsy realizes he might be being a little stubbornly thick. There's really no reason for Harry to keep sending him gifts. This was far more than he'd asked for at this point and it doesn't make any sense. He'd only asked for a sign, and Harry had given him one. The rest of this is just excessive. Of course, maybe it's his way of making up for the fact that he is alive and when he comes home he will obviously be repossessing his possessions which will obviously dispossess Eggsy rather inconveniently.

Thinking about that eventuality leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. It's something he doesn't look forward to dealing with.

“So there's a chance I might be moving again. Don't know when yet, but I might need to stay at yours for a mo',” he tells his mum.

Michelle gives him an unimpressed look as he bounces a giggling Daisy in his lap. “Oi. I don't see or hear neither hide nor hair from ya for near on 5 months and all the sudden you're tellin' me you're going to be movin' in?”

Eggsy gives her a sheepish frown and ducks his head. “Nah, only temporarily.”

“Babe, you know you can move in for as long as ya need to,” she tells him with exasperated fondness.

“Thanks mum,” Eggsy smiles softly, taking her hand.

He gets the cuff links and matching tie pin several weeks later. They've got little cups on them, like wine goblets or something. He has to look it up to figure it out. They're chalices. Like Galahad's Holy Grail.

Everything Harry does is laden in so much classical symbolism, Eggsy muses fondly, affixing the pin to his new tie. He looks damn right smashing, actually, he decides, giving himself a once-over in the mirror. Not that he'd ever doubted it, but the man's got absurdly good taste.

All these gifts are really generous. Eggsy's not used to getting such fine things from people, especially for no particular occasion. But then, it's not as if he's ever had well-to-do friends before. Harry's not just posh, he's fucking  _nobility._  He figures this all may very likely be simply standard social operating procedure among the upper-echelon; giving little presents to their friends on a whim, just to show amicability or good manners or something. Totally nothing out of the ordinary. Eggsy should stop letting himself be so flattered and charmed by the gestures. It's not as if Harry's actually meaning to court or seduce him or anything.

Still, when Harry sends him the ridiculously fluffy slippers the following week, he can't help but melt a little and steal a guilty second or two to revel in the fantasy of feeling so cherished by this lovely, perfect man. Even if he knows it's not real. Especially because he knows it's not real.

–

“I found our man,” Harry reports to Merlin after a successful morning a few days later.

Merlin's expression is immediately shark-like. “You have,” he replies eagerly.

“Our man is a woman,” he smirks. “She's very attractive. Looks a little like you if you put on a wig.”

Merlin snorts. “Must be a knock out then.”

“I've scouted out the location. Secured. At least a dozen armed. That's just outside. I've pulled up the blueprint.”

“I see it now,” Merlin replies downloading the attachment. “If I can pull in a satellite I might be able to get a bird's eye. Send me the coordinates.”

“Already done. What are you getting?”

“Remote isn't it?”

Harry scowls. I hear your tone of disapproval but it's not my first rodeo. I hired a man to case the property.”

“Is that what they say over there in the states? 'Your first rodeo', what are you, John Wayne?” Merlin scoffs. “Well, at least your learning to delegate. Who did you get?”

“A second-string from our friends.”

“We could use a few over here if they'd care to send any our way. Bit short at the moment.”

“I just reported that over to your Statesman contact,” Harry grins. “I'm meant to convey back to you they will be happy to trade you a few for your Arthur.”

“Oh, isn't that just a feather in your cap,” Merlin sighs. “As if your ego wasn't over inflated enough as it is.”

“They're prepared to offer me a very fine home in the Hamptons. I've been sent a picture. It has a swimming pool.”

“How quaint.”

“It's awfully tempting,” Harry teases.

“Tell them it's a deal. If they can put up with you, more power to them.”

“You gravely wound me, Merlin.”

“I'm sure Statesman has many fine surgeons to fix you back up.”

“There's a helipad to the north,” Harry informs him a second later.

“That will serve as our extraction point. I'm going to need the coordinates.”

“I'm going to need back-up.”

“I'm contacting Statesman,” Merlin replies. “You'll be joined by two other agents. They should arrive just before 19 hundred.”

Harry's eyes water a bit, stinging as the wind whips hard across the valley. Adrenaline pumping through him, he's wound as tense as a steel coil ready to spring. If everything goes smoothly, he'll be going home in less than 24 hours.

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

Pushing back on his heels, Merlin tilts back in his chair and stares at the arched ceiling of Arthur's excessively expansive office, missing the closer quarters of his old one.

Chester King's décor still haunts the place. There's still the classic elegance of his predecessor's of course: the mounted antlers, the typical huntsman's trophies stuffed and propped on display and the patina-bronzed busts and antique vases, but there's also an infusion of an era the old man had never seemed to be able to part with: the brown flock wallpaper, the telex machine in the corner—there's even an old rotary phone that still sits on the corner of the desk.

It's a bit tacky.

Still, Merlin would easily admit there's a certain charm to be found in the analogue aesthetic. After all, retrofitting _is_ one of his specialties: adapting what's classic and what's past-model to perform with cutting edge efficiency is something he takes great pride in.

Reclaiming purpose services a duality of form and function. That's a fact.

It's both art and artifice. For instance, Merlin can take an instrument as simple as a pen and cleverly rig it to retain that signature air of old-world sophistication while simultaneously concealing its lethal potential. A pen by itself, however, is simply anachronistic.

Merlin has no patience for any nostalgic sentimentality (not in that regard, anyway).

What's obsolete should be discarded or cannibalized. Unfortunately, this view isn't a universal one. There's always the pervasive trend that pays homage to the quaintness of the past. The problem is, this results in enabling the technologically disinclined to mask their incompetence behind a condescending attitude of false superiority.

At the first twilight of the dawning digital revolution, Merlin had wasted no time converting Kingsman to the modern era. It was almost a complete renovation save for King.

“ _Haste makes waste,”_ Arthur had espoused and it drove Merlin right up the wall.

The things is, King was of that generation staunchly rooted in their ways. He despised progress with the kind of passionate dedication that eschewed common sense.

Aside from the man's more obvious deficiencies: his elitist politics, overt cronyism and suspect methods of garnering financing, he was utterly technologically impotent. Thus, instead of electronically filing his reports, he'd insisted on sticking to the old-fashioned drudgery of pen and paper.

It was an issue he'd patently refused to budge on no matter Merlin's exhaustive efforts to convince him to the contrary.

Fortunately for Merlin, he'd kept organized. Unfortunately for his accomplices, he's also been arrogant. In his arrogance, he'd been careless, leaving quite the long and damning paper trail of sins behind him. While it proved a tiring job to sort through his files, the effort was not without its rewards.

Merlin had spent the better part of half a year doubling as both Arthur and the director of his own department, and in that time, if that burden wasn't enough of a headache to bear, he'd also had to endure the Board of Governor's poking their collective noses into every nook and cranny. This had served too often to hamper, handicap and undermine too many of their operations and had also steadily fueled Merlin's suspicions that there was something else at play.

And as it turned out, after spending tireless nights raiding King's file cabinets, that was exactly what he'd discovered.

Unbeknownst to the majority supporting the internal investigation launched six months prior, were the insidious motives of the few executing it. Leveraging their authority, these individuals had ravaged Kingsman in a desperate race to destroy any incriminating evidence that would expose their misdeeds to the rest of the Board.

Merlin, however, had finally won that race and he's never been above blackmail. This meant, he was able to retain all the financial backing without relying on the debasement of bribery. With this cleaned up, once Harry takes the helm, Merlin is confident Kingsman will once more rise to its former glory and be able to serve its noble purpose with as much integrity as its founders had originally intended.

Meanwhile, Merlin's other endeavour abroad, while unconnected but every bit as vital, has also met with success. In combined effort with Harry, they'd infiltrated the heart of the enterprise and leveled it to the ground.

Still, although matters seem to be wrapping up smoothly, Merlin still has his hands full easing the transition for the new Arthur's imminent return.

Hunched over his computer, he heaves a long, weary sigh, going a little cross-eyed as he stares at the never ending reports in front of him. Sometimes he feels a little too much like Sisyphus pushing the boulder up the mountain and it's far from the only thing weighing on his mind.

A light rap on the door breaks his attention and startled, Merlin glances down at the time. Fortunately, it's still too early to be the guest he'd been expecting.

“I'm in,” he announces, glancing up as Tristan strolls in.

“Morning,” he greets.

“Apt observation,” Merlin mutters glancing back down at his inbox. Grabbing the stack, he flips through the folders, shuffling them into order by time stamp for entry.

Tristan slides his own report across to him. “Dotted all the T's and crossed all the I's just as you like,” he playfully remarks, striding around the desk to sneak a swig from Merlin's mug.

Merlin blinks. “I think that's the other way around.”

“Coffees gone cold. Noticed you didn't come over last night. Burning the midnight oil again I take it?” Tristan asks lightly.

“Shoo, fly,” Merlin retorts, waving his hand to clear him out of the way so he can pull out the drawer. “Make yourself useful,” he instructs, tossing a coffee packet over to the man.

Tristan leans his hip against the edge of the desk, holding the thing as if it's offended him personally. “Demoting me to your errand boy?”

Merlin drags a hand over his eyes and yawns. “Consider it a promotion to P.A.”

Tristan gives him a skeptical frown. “Personal Assistant? Is that what the kids are calling it these days,” he snorts. “Fine. As long as you don't start calling me 'Guinevere'. Or 'Excalibur' for that matter. I don't think I could bear the cliche.”

Merlin pulls a hand over his face. “Was there something you wanted, Alec?”

“Only to chastise you for neglect,” Tristan replies. “You haven't been around lately.” _I've been worried._ He doesn't say it, but Merlin can read it off him easily enough.

“I've been horribly swamped, that's all,” he reassures him.

“Any sign of that changing some point in the near future?” Tristan asks with a small hesitant tone of hope as he makes quick work of brewing a new pot.

“With any luck, two days time, give or take.”

Tristan raises an eyebrow as he hands Merlin a fresh, steaming mug. “That's fairly specific,” he remarks. “Something I should know about?”

“I trust you won't say anything?”

“On my honour as a gentleman,” Tristan vows, clapping his hand over his heart.

“At ease, soldier,” Merlin smirks. “It pleases me to finally say, rumours of our former Galahad's death have been greatly exaggerated and he'll be returning shortly to relieve me of my title.”

Tristan stares at him in flat disbelief. “Hart's alive.”

“That he is,” Merlin confirms.

“And he's taking Arthur's seat.”

“That's the expectation.”

Tristan is quiet for a long second, digesting this new information with a dark look on his face. “Congratulations,” he eventually bids, disappointment heavy in his tone.

Merlin stares at the other man, a little bewildered. “Something tells me that's less than genuine.”

Tristan straightens up, retraining his expression to something better resembling a statue. “Not in the least. It must be quite the relief for you.”

Merlin's grin spreads across his face. “I must admit, I've been ill-equipped to manage both positions for this fucking long. Shouldering off half the burden will be a load off my back—and mind.”

“And naturally, I presume you'll be returning to your lover now he's coming home.”

The blunt remark wipes the grin from Merlin's face faster than the speed of the new fighter jets they've got ready in the hangar.

“ _Excuse me?_ ” he demands, distractedly sloshing his coffee over the edge of its rim. “ _Fuck,_ ” Merlin curses, quickly setting down the mug to examine the stinging pink skin over his knuckles.

Tristan huffs an exasperated sigh and grabs him by the forearm, marching him to the sink. “ _Careless,_ ” he mutters, fixing the tap and holding Merlin's scalded hand beneath the cold water. Merlin gets the uncomfortable feeling the man's accusation holds a little deeper a meaning than it outwardly suggests.

“It's not as if it's been any great secret,” Tristan explains. “I mean, obviously, I've been rather oblivious. I'd heard the rumours but I hadn't observed anything to lend them much credence.”

“That's because they're just that: _rumours,_ ” Merlin defends, gingerly dabbing his hand dry. “Utter rubbish.”

“But every rumour has a grain of truth in it, doesn't it?” Tristan points out, raising his eyebrows meaningfully. “Since we've been involved, I've gradually come to see there was some truth in them. Painfully obvious, really.

Merlin shakes his head. “You're mistaken.”

“Of course I'm not. You can't take me for a fool, Mark. Friends don't look the way you look whenever he's mentioned.”

Self-consciously, Merlin wonders if Tristan's right. How _does_ he look? He cringes inwardly as he imagines how transparent he might have been all this time without ever realizing it. If that's the case, surely Harry had spotted it.

 _Christ_ is that a humiliating thing to fathom.

“It also has occurred to me that it might explain why you rebuffed all my advances at first,” Tristan adds. “Here, I'd merely thought you were being coy or I was being too subtle-”

“Had it not occurred to you I may have been a little preoccupied?”

“What does occur to me is that you've been a little preoccupied the entire time we've been together,” Tristan sighs. “The thing is, I want you to understand. I'd have never pursued you if I'd have thought for even a second I might be stepping on any toes. Truthfully, while it's been dampening to my pride to accept my lot as a rebound, I admit I've come to care for you a great deal and I'd clung to some hope that given some time, I'd come to mean as much to you.”

“ _You do,_ ” Merlin argues.

“Still, I also understand we're now in a fairly awkward situation, so I'm prepared to do the honourable thing and step aside.”

Merlin snorts. “Truly Alec, you're an utter dolt and you don't listen to a goddamn thing I say.”

Tristan bawks at the insult, “That's not-”

“Stop,” Merlin orders, grabbing the other man firmly by the hips to hold him in place.

Tristan stares at him unconvinced. “Very well, then tell me I've got it wrong.”

“You've got it wrong,” Merlin confirms, his scottish brogue more emphasized than usual for the emotion behind it.

“Tell me you don't love Harry Hart.”

Merlin sucks in a breath. The honest thing would be to tell him _no, he'd never lie to him like that,_ but at the end of the day, it's not in either of their best interest.

“I don't,” he reports coolly. “Frankly, Alec, as... _endearing_ as this little display of sudden jealousy is, there's no cause for it. Harry's only a friend. Nothing more.”

Tristan runs his hands down along his shirtsleeves, then takes a step back, putting some distance between them. Merlin's hands fall back to his sides.

“You don't have to lie to me, Mark. We're both adults, here. I assure you I can handle the truth.”

“For the sake of full disclosure, _yes,_ ” Merlin finally relents, stomach in knots. “There's a past, but it's in the past, understand?”

Tristan's smile is grim. “We all have our pasts, Mark, but yours still follows you.”

He has to concede the point.

“Being fair to both of us, you need to sort yours out,” Tristan sighs, looking at Merlin with sad eyes and a softer smile. “When you've got it sorted, you can give me a call.”

Merlin's shoulders slump as he watches Tristan take his leave, stricken by regret and cursing himself twice over for being so foolish. There's never been any closure between him and Harry and it's long overdue. At some point, it needs to be addressed.

Honestly, though, he's looking about as forward to that as he is to what he needs to do next, which is to say, _not at all._

Before the door can even shut, Eggsy is peaking his head in hesitantly. “You wanted to see me, Sir?”

 _Speak of the devil,_ Merlin thinks, scowling to himself. This is not turning out to be the greatest morning.

“Come in, Galahad. Take a seat,” Merlin requests, waving Eggsy into his office. He folds his hands, setting them on top of the desk in front of him as he waits for the young man to situate himself.

“Is everything alright, Merlin?” Eggsy asks, gazing across at him uncertainly.

Merlin sucks in a deep breath. “Well enough. There is a matter that's arisen that I believed best to address with you personally,” he prefaces carefully. “I will be stepping down from my current post as Arthur to resume my regular position.”

Eggsy receives the news quietly but Merlin can sense the tension roiling through him. “The new Arthur will be calling a meeting to introduce himself in two days time,” he informs the young man. “And I thought it wise you were prepared in advance.”

“Are you singling me out for a reason, Merlin?” Eggsy asks suspiciously.

“With very good reason,” Merlin responds sympathetically.

Eggsy's eyes are hard. “I'm gonna guess this _new_ Arthur won't need much introduction, will he?”

“We do always promote from within,” Merlin confirms vaguely, not at all liking the direction this is heading.

“You waited a goddamned long time to tell me,” Eggsy replies coldly. “Right up 'til the last fuckin' second, mate.”

 _Oh._ So he knows. _Well shit._

“There were very legitimate reasons,” Merlin defends. “Lives were at stake.”

“You can spin excuses at me all day long, Merlin,” Eggsy bitterly retorts, “But the fact remains, you didn't respect me enough to trust me. I'm a Kingsman, ain't I? Remember the train tracks? I passed that test. What's more? I've known for awhile. Figured it out for myself. Just needed to nick a pair of glasses and run down to the gun range. Same distance, same gage bullet and that's all it took to tell me everything.”

Merlin stares at the young man with a renewed respect. Clearly, he'd underestimated him. “Well, lad,” he sighs. “I admit. I'm impressed.”

Eggsy shakes his head. “You know that's not the point. The thing is, like I said. I've known for awhile. Ain't said a word, have I? Even you couldn't tell I knew what was up.”

“Point taken,” Merlin replies levelly. “However, under the circumstances, I stand by my decision. It would have been a breech of protocol. Unless strictly relevant, at all times, any mission pertinent details must remain confidential. Which, as you're aware is for everyone's safety.”

Eggsy looks conflicted as he chews on this. “Yeah, I know you're right,” he eventually admits. “But you gotta agree, it still really sucks.”

“If it softens the blow, Harry, for his part, had made it very clear to me he felt similarly about the matter. He wanted very much to tell you.”

This achieves the desired goal. Eggsy brightens instantly. “From the start?”

“From the start,” Merlin confirms.

“Alright then,” the lad nods. “Means a lot you told me. You didn't have to.”

“You had every right to know.”

Eggsy looks at him meaningfully. “You know, Merlin. You're not too bad a bloke when you wanna be.”

Merlin smirks. “Good of you to say, Eggsy.”

“We're good. No hard feelings, I mean.”

“Of course,” Merlin confirms, returning the lad's friendly smile with some measure of relief.

“So I 'spose I'll be movin' in with my mum, then. Guessing Harry will probably want his house back, yeah?”

“Naturally, considering the will and everything I had you sign is void,” Merlin points out, feeling a little heartless to lay it out so bluntly. Eggsy meets the news without any surprise.

“Nah, I get that. All just a prop. Like the urn.”

“Fortunately, all agents are provided a residence should they require one. Preparations have been made in advance for you in that regard, as it wouldn't be appropriate nor safe for you to reside with your family.”

“Makes sense,” Eggsy shrugs.

“Of course, as you're also aware, you do have the privilege of always utilizing company transportation. However, it's come to my attention you prefer to drive yourself,” Merlin explains. “Which is why you will also be provided with your own car.”

Eggsy's eyes light up. “You better not be takin' the piss, mate.”

Merlin slides a pair of keys across the desk.

“ _Bloody hell,_ this isn't what I think it is, is it?”

“Down in C garage, adjacent to the gym, parked in lot 10, you should find a new Porsche with your name on it.”

“ _Fuck me,_ ” Eggsy breathes, staring in shock at the keys. “Thanks, Merlin, that's fuckin' _ace_.”

“Don't thank me,” Merlin smirks. “ _Thank Harry._ ”

“What?”

“He's the one who paid for it.”

“ _Why?_ ”

“I assume for not burning down his house while you were away,” Merlin shrugs. “Now scram. I've got work to do.”

“Yessir,” Eggsy grins, mock saluting him on his way out. There's a bounce in his step Merlin hasn't seen in a long time.

There's the same bounce in Harry's step as he disembarks the plane at HQ, his eyes pinning onto Merlin and staying there until he's within arms reach.

They don't hug in public. In fact, they never hug. At this point, it's almost an unspoken rule. Regardless, Harry steamrolls right over that rule and grabs him into a tight embrace that nearly crushes Merlin's sternum.

“Alright, get off me, you idiot,” Merlin gasps out, grinning in spite of himself.

Harry pulls away from him but clamps his hands firmly over his shoulders, keeping him in place.

“It's been too goddamn long,” he expresses, shaking his head.

“We spoke less than 12 hours ago,” Merlin reminds him, all but rolling his eyes.

“As I said, too goddamn long.”

Harry's eyes are warm as he looks at him. “How's Eggsy?”

“Surprisingly well,” Merlin confirms as they head toward the hangar exit into the main building.

Harry pulls his bag over his shoulder and quickly matches stride beside him. “Did he approve of the car?”

“With gusto,” Merlin reports. “However, you should know, as of yesterday he's moved to his own residence.”

Harry glances at him. “I expected as much.”

“But you're disappointed,” Merlin says knowingly.

“It's not as if I could...” Harry trails off and shakes his head.

“ _Keep him_?”

Harry shoots him a stern look. “Don't put words into my mouth.”

“It's nothing you weren't thinking,” Merlin sighs as they head up the lift. “There's also something else I wanted to bring to your attention.”

Harry looks at him uneasily. “And what exactly would that be?”

“He already knew.”

Harry's mouth is pressed in a thin line and his eyes are trained in front of them.

Merlin shakes his head resignedly. “You told him, didn't you?” he asks, meeting Harry's eyes in the reflective surface of the door.

“What did he say?” Harry asks carefully, his expression guarded.

“He told me he figured it out for himself.”

“I take it you're in some doubt of that?”

“I don't doubt he confirmed what he was already made to suspect,” Merlin clarifies.

“You forget, he's very clever,” Harry defends a little too defensively.

“No matter how clever he is, I know you're just as clever,” Merlin replies.

“I never did anything that I believed would ever jeopardize the mission.”

“You deliberately broke the rules, Harry-”

“To every rule there's an exception,” Harry cuts in. “In this case, an exception had to be made.”

“I still don't condone your actions.”

“I'm sure I don't have to remind you, but as of now, until tomorrow, you are still acting Director, _Arthur._ You may dismiss me if you think it's best,” Harry points out.

“That would be the single most counter-productive, self-injurious move I could possibly make,” Merlin snorts.

Harry's expression is smug. “I assumed you'd come to that conclusion.”

“You assume a lot,” Merlin tells him irritably, following him off the lift.

“I assume from the state of things, you've done an admirable job holding up the place.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Merlin admits, pouring his companion a cup of tea. “Debrief now or after lunch?”

“Well, I imagine this will take awhile,” Harry sighs, tossing Merlin the jump drive. “Best get it over with and then we should discuss supper. I've a terrible hankering for roast beef.”

“The little place in town?”

“As usual,” Harry smiles, settling down in his seat, blowing off the steam rising out of his cup before taking a sip.

“You're a creature of habit,” Merlin replies, shaking his head fondly.

“Conveniently for me, you're an unrepentant enabler.”

“Over-indulged,” Merlin grins indulgently.

“Spoiled rotten,” Harry agrees, his eyes warm.

“Let's start with the events in logical order,” Merlin directs, navigating their conversation back to safer territory before his heart can jump out of his throat.

Harry examines him thoughtfully for a moment, as if he wants to say something else but thinks better of it and Merlin finds he's simultaneously both disappointed and relieved by the fact.

Soon enough, he figures, the time will come when moments like they'd just shared will be unlikely to ever happen again. Best to enjoy it while he can before he ruins it forever.

–

  
  


The entire duration of the meeting, it's all Harry can do to avoid staring at Eggsy. He's so close, in Galahad's chair, if Harry were only to reach out he could touch him. What's even more distracting is that he can faintly smell his own aftershave on the young man which reminds him so poignantly of the fact that he was so recently living in his home. Still, not once, during the entire duration does Eggsy so much as _look_ at him.

After he's finished giving his introductory speech, the holograms blink out and Harry shakes all the hands of the agents present, receiving their congratulations as gracefully as he can for his immeasurable impatience. He can't dismiss them soon enough, excitement and reluctance warring inside him as his eyes continuously flit back to the only man yet to speak to him—the only man he wants to speak to.

Finally as the last agent heads out and the door is closed behind them, Harry's gaze fixes intently on Eggsy, greedily soaking in the sight of him. Eggsy, however, is staring at the top of the table in front of him as if the swirls of wood grain are the most fascinating thing he's ever seen.

Harry catches his breath and finds his voice. “Galahad.”

“Arthur,” Eggsy replies evenly, no semblance of emotion betraying his composure.

“ _Eggsy,_ ” Harry breathes, not daring to move, not trusting his sense of self restraint enough to keep from running to the young man and kissing him senseless. That would be terribly rash—horribly foolish, he reminds himself, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.

At the sound of his name falling out of Harry's mouth with such intensity; with such blatant heat, Eggsy glances up at him at last, his expression stricken. Swallowed by the blue of his eyes, Harry loses his ability to speak for a second.

Then, Eggsy is pushing back his chair and rising from his seat, approaching Harry slowly and extending his hand.

“I'm glad you're back, Harry. It's good to see you again.”

Harry's heart hammers in his chest as he takes the young man's hand in his own. Upon first touch, it's as if a current of something zips through them. The space between them is suddenly charged and he can tell by the widening of his eyes that Eggsy has experienced the same phenomena.

“I can't tell you how good it is to see you too, my boy,” Harry replies, the endearment slipping out inadvertently but altogether too naturally. The apples of Eggsy's cheeks colour a little in response, and the sight of it is far too enticing—so enticing, Harry forgets just how long he's held the young man's hand hostage in his own until he catches sight of Eggsy's desperate, strained look of discomfort and immediately, Harry releases his grip. The second he does, Eggsy's hand flies out of his own all too eager to escape as if he'd been burned from the contact.

“So,” Eggsy rushes out, “I did a spot of cleaning before I moved out. Changed the bedding, ran the vacuum, restocked your cupboards and what not-”

“You didn't have to do any of that-”

“Look, I just wanted to thank you. You know, for everything, Harry. Really. _You_ didn't have to do any of that. And the car-”

Harry shakes his head, “Eggsy, please. I _wanted_ to do all of that. And more.”

“Yeah, but you done enough, right?” Eggsy races hurriedly to say, “Ain't owe me nothin', honest. Anyway, I gotta get going. Gotta pick up Daisy from daycare. Promised I'd sit for the day, but uh, it was real good to catch up, yeah?”

Harry can tell he's clearly uncomfortable in his presence and he doesn't want to cause the young man any more unnecessary distress than he already has, so he courteously bows his head instead, giving him permission to leave. “Indeed, Eggsy, please don't be a stranger.”

Eggsy gives him an odd, cockeyed grin. “Can't since we won't be. Considering you're kinda my boss now, right?”

_Oh._

Harry grimaces to himself. The young man's reminded him of a valid point. Fraternization rules are lax between colleagues, but he _does_ happen to be his superior now, which makes everything Harry wants suddenly that much more inappropriate and impossible.

“Indeed,” he replies uneasily. “Take care, Eggsy.”

“Yeah, you too,” Eggsy nods, flashing him a quick, painfully forced smile and fleeing out the door as if he couldn't get away soon enough, abandoning Harry alone to his misery.

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

Throughout the following weeks, Harry has little to no contact with Eggsy while the agent is away on various missions. Whenever he does come home however, outside of their short meetings where debriefs are made and new assignments are issued, the young man makes a concerted effort to avoid him. He's faultlessly professional and his manners are utterly flawless and he always has ready-made, some perfect excuse to occupy his free-time, which means Harry's offers for tea or lunch are continuously declined.

If that wasn't a low enough blow, strangely, Merlin seems just as intent on making himself conveniently unavailable.

There's no excuse for it. Tristan is often away on assignment and the man's workload has significantly reduced since Harry's return.

He even tries to coerce him into joining him for supper, using Merlin's favourite meal as bait: braised lamb chops and that awful mint jelly he so adores.

“Come over for supper,” Harry insists a little desperately, cornering him in the man's own office.

“I'm busy tonight,” Merlin mutters tiredly.

“And I suppose you're busy tomorrow night as well,” Harry bites out, frustrated and a bit hurt.

“As it happens,” Merlin confirms, his answer annoyingly vague. Harry doesn't quite storm out, but his expression is nothing less than stormy as he politely accepts the rejection and takes his leave, yet again.

Finally, he decides to show up on his door step with a bottle of the man's favourite scotch.

“ _Harry_ ,” Merlin acknowledges with a put-upon sigh, resignedly stepping aside to allow him in.

He shows him to the living room and pours them both a glass. “To what do I owe the the privilege of your _esteemed_ company this evening?”

Harry can't quite help but catch the edge of sarcasm in the other man's tone, feeling both a little miffed and genuinely baffled by his icy reception. “Is there a reason I should be unwelcome?”

“You pop over completely unannounced and you instantly expect me to be pleased about it?” Merlin scoffs, handing him a drink.

“Unless I'm somehow mistaken, I'm not intruding on anything am I? You certainly don't appear to be in anyway indisposed,” Harry replies, pointedly glancing down at Merlin's robe and slippers as he invites himself to take his regular seat across from the other man.

“Once again, taking for granted that I always accommodate you regardless of whether it's convenient for me,” Merlin snorts. “Which brings us back around to the point. Why are you here?”

“If I've truly inconvenienced you, then perhaps I should show myself the door,” Harry replies evenly, without showing any intention of budging from his spot. Unless the man means to forcibly eject him from it, they both know he's not going anywhere.

Merlin chuckles darkly and takes a seat himself. “ _Convincing_ ,” he drawls, calling him out on his bluff. “As you've so evidently already made yourself right at home, I suppose it would be redundant to invite you to.”

“Such _hospitality_ ,” Harry drawls right back, taking a sip of his drink.

“Harry, _why are you here?_ ” Merlin repeats, clutching his own glass tightly in his fist. Judging by the man's mood, Harry decides to take a gentler tactic.

“I've met scarcely a friendly face for over six months, Mark. Surely you could show a little more sympathy,” he chides lightly, reclining in his seat.

Merlin stares back at him coolly. “What do you want from me, Harry?” he asks, straight to the point.

Harry blinks, startled. “Must I always have some ulterior motive?” he asks, returning the question with an injured frown.

“Don't give me that rubbish, Harry," Merlin intones bitterly, "There's _always_ something you want."

Rightly offended, Harry gapes at the other man for a half-second before his mouth closes, pressing into a thin, unhappy line. “That's terribly unfair of you,” he remarks, setting down his drink with a bit more force than he'd intended. The glass clinks audibly against the surface of the table and Harry winces a little.

“Can we skip the pretense?” Merlin asks, his tone short.

“I'd prefer to,” Harry replies, smoothing a hand down over a crease in his jacket sleeve.

“Then out with it.”

“Very well,” Harry grudgingly relents. “As always, you're right. I _do_ need you.”

In response to this, there's an immediate flash of something almost devastated that crosses Merlin's stunned face but it's just as quickly concealed again. Attempting his best impression of oatmeal, he retrains his expression into a flat, bland frown, but Harry's a little less than totally convinced. Something heated and intense still flickers in Merlin's eyes and his knuckles are almost white from the pressure of his grip around his glass.

Merlin swallows thickly. “Would you care to elaborate?” he croaks out, a little strained.

“I've always known I could rely on you for sound counsel,” Harry begins carefully, grimacing a little as Merlin's face darkens in expectation. “Which is why I must seek your advice regarding Eggsy,” he finishes, also finishing off his drink.

Merlin gusts out a long, exasperated sigh, shaking his head. “ _You're such a goddamn idiot, Harry,_ ” he mutters angrily, pushing out of his chair.

Harry frowns. “That's not exactly helpful,” he grumbles, glaring at Merlin's back as he gets up to snag the bottle of Macallan.

“You're utterly _hopeless_ ,” Merlin huffs, pouring another finger of scotch into both of their glasses before returning to his seat.

Harry stares across at him, nonplussed. “What am I supposed to do? He wants nothing to do with me. I've tried to extend invitations to tea or lunch but he rejects every offer.” _Not unlike you've been, Merlin,_ he thinks a little grimly.

“You're both idiots,” Merlin grunts, collapsing back down in his chair. “I imagine you've convinced yourself that it would be inappropriate to pursue the matter honestly?”

“The fact remains. Just as you said. It would be terribly inappropriate-”

“You and I both know there are no officially established fraternization policies that would prohibit such an arrangement.”

Harry shakes his head. “A gentleman must abide by certain codes of conduct. It's an issue of ethics.”

For some reason, Merlin is apparently amused by this. _“Christ._ Some of the shit that comes out of your mouth! Do you ever realize how ridiculous you sound? Do you even hear yourself? Sometimes I think you spout off that 'gentleman' rot just to convince yourself of something. Not off the mark, am I?” he smirks. “But seriously. Let's curtail the hypocrisy. Don't feign some air of moral superiority with me, Harry,” he smirks. “What you purport to be and what you _actually_ are tend to differ rather vastly from day to day.”

“If you're going to sling such slander, one hopes you've brought along some defense for it,” Harry retorts.

Merlin waves his hand dismissively. “I hardly need remind you of the Black Prince incident.”

“It was a matter of defending honour,” Harry argues.

“It was a matter of showing off, you mean. You wanted to impress the lad—be some kind of knight in shining armour. How _gallant_. Instead of comporting yourself with grace and diplomacy, you opted instead to pulverize a hapless gang of civilians.”

“They were _thugs,_ ” Harry spits out.

“So there was some remark that insinuated something a little off-coloured-”

“You know how little patience I have for poor manners,” Harry defends.

“It was a ploy for the lad's attention-”

“ _Not_ for the reasons you're implying.”

Merlin all but rolls his eyes. “Regardless, your silly peacocking caused me hours of paperwork,” he reminds him. “But back to the pertinent subject here, I agree. You're right. It's absolutely an issue of ethics. However, that's all it is. No one can hold you accountable to something that doesn't exist in ink, Harry. No actual rules prevent you from engaging in a relationship with the lad, even if you are his boss,” he argues. “Which, germane to the point, also means, even if such rules were to exist, it'd be entirely your prerogative to either implement or overlook them.”

“Doing so to cater to my own interests would be taking unforgivable advantage. _Inexcusably unprofessional_ ,” Harry huffs.

Merlin shrugs. “May I recall your attention to five years ago when George proposed to Madeline? She'd been Bedivere's handler for over a decade.”

“But _not_ his _boss,_ ” Harry points out. “Imagine if, in the highly unlikely, theoretical scenario where I would be involved in such an affair, word should get out. I would endure constant criticism. Constant scorn. Think of my reputation: I'd undoubtedly be taken for some sort of doddering, doting old fool. It would irreparably harm my credibility which in turn would naturally serve to undermine my authority. Imagine how this would effect morale. There would always be that lingering resentment, that suspicion of favoritism; of preferential treatment-”

“Oh, please,” Merlin scoffs. “You're blowing everything out of proportion. You make it sound like there'd be a mutiny on your hands-”

Harry sits forward, fixing the other man with a serious scowl. “Can you even fathom how all of this would effect Eggsy? You know the boy, Merlin. It would undercut every accomplishment, bankrupt him of his confidence. And you know exactly what he would do to salvage his pride, exactly how he would feel compelled to overcompensate to prove himself to his colleagues. And to himself, for that matter.”

Harry settles back again, leaning into his fingers massaging his temple. “Even if there weren't a million and one good reasons why even humouring the prospect would beg question of my sanity, knowing just how invariably detrimental this would be for Eggsy would be enough alone to advise my conscience against it,” he explains. “Not to mention that I harbour sincere doubt any relationship would be likely to endure under such constant calumny.”

Merlin eyes Harry's glass, less than surprised to find it nearly polished off once again. His own, in no better state, is also refilled.

“Also, to further illustrate the futility of what you suggest, is the sheer fact that I can't even so much as get him to agree to lunch,” Harry adds, staring down morosely at his scotch. Twisting the glass a little, he watches the amber liquid swirl into a lazy funnel while bringing the drink up to his nose to inhale the release of sharp, woody aromatics before taking a long sip.

The liquor burns down his esophagus adding to the tingle of calming heat spreading through him. When he looks up again, Merlin is watching him under heavy lidded eyes with a contemplative expression.

“Forgive I point out the obvious,” he tells Harry, “But it's very likely the lad thinks his feelings aren't reciprocated.”

“I've given him some reason to believe they might be,” Harry replies vaguely.

“Some reason when one is looking for a _good_ reason doesn't quite suffice.”

Harry fixes him with a speculative frown. “You're speaking from experience,” he carefully remarks.

“Decade's worth,” Merlin confirms.

Harry taps the edge of his glass uncertainly. Unsure exactly how to navigate this suddenly very delicate turn to the conversation. Regardless of the reason motivating his sudden burst of honesty, whether it's too much drink or something else, it leads them into that unstable ground; that aspect of their relationship they're both all too conscious of and all too eager to avoid.

Typically, Merlin's modus operandi is to deflect while Harry lets him. It's how it's always been. It's how Merlin has always wanted it to be, hasn't it been?

Suddenly Harry isn't so sure.

There's a long, pregnant silence as he considers what to do; conflicted between redirecting the conversation himself, for Merlin's sake—for the sake of preserving their friendship, or giving into the chance to finally disassemble the 'secret best kept'.

“Are you sure this is a road you want to go down?” Harry finally asks, explicitly admitting that _yes,_ he knows exactly what Merlin is referring to, regardless of the countless times prior he's pretended not to, while also courteously giving his friend a last chance to back out and save face.

Merlin's responding smirk is a little teasing, a little sharp edged, and little self-deprecating. “I figure the elephant in the room has to be let out at some point.”

Harry grins in spite of his sudden nervousness. “Then let's let it back outside where it belongs.”

Merlin sucks in a breath. “The thing is, I've been a coward, Harry, and it's never served either of us any good,” he admits, wincing a little, his smile strained but genuine. “I can't in good conscience, allow you to make the same mistake I have all these years.”

Harry shakes his head, his heart tight in his chest. “Mark, for _God's sake._ Why did you never say anything?”

“Because it would've never worked between us. We both know that,” he replies simply.

“You never gave it a chance to,” Harry points out.

Merlin concedes the point gracefully. “True, however, I have no regrets.” His eyes are warm, if a little shy. “You're my dearest friend and I'd have it no other way.”

Harry sets down his glass. “And what of Tristan?”

Merlin's smile falters. “He figured it out.”

Harry pulls a hand over his face. “Dear Christ.”

“My sentiments exactly,” Merlin sighs. “He left me,” he explains, “With the proviso that if I have any intention of being with him, I have to sort this thing out with you first.”

“You do have some intention of being with him then?” Harry asks carefully, a little fearful of Merlin reporting to the contrary and what that would imply.

Merlin's eyes lock onto Harry's. “ _Every intention,_ ” he confesses fervently, looking far too decimated by the admission. “But I'm afraid it might be a lost cause at this point.”

Without another second thought, Harry pushes himself out of his chair and strides around the small coffee table between them.

“What are you-” Merlin gasps, startled as Harry's hands wrap around his wrists, yanking him out of his chair and into a tight embrace.

“Tristan was right, we do need to fix this,” Harry explains, “For the sake of all parties involved.”

Merlin's arms come up around him hesitantly, his hands settling uneasily over Harry's back.

“Well, this wasn't exactly the response I was expecting,” he mumbles uncomfortably into Harry's shoulder. “Bit melodramatic, really.”

Harry presses a soft smile against his friend's ear. “But necessary,” he whispers. Merlin shudders a little at the contact and when Harry wraps his hand around the back of the his neck, he can feel the other man melt into him a little, his guard finally beginning to slip.

“Alright?” Harry asks.

“You?” Merlin ask still unsure.

“More than,” Harry reassures, pulling him closer.

Merlin molds against him and his hands suddenly clutch at his back, fisting into his jacket as if Harry is his anchor and the only thing holding him into shore. “ _Harry,_ ” he utters, his voice brittle and a little wrecked. “ _Christ,_ ” he groans, “I wasn't sure you would-”

“Would what?”

Merlin utters out a half-laugh, half-sob, burying his face in Harry's shoulder. “I wasn't sure we would still be friends after this,” he admits.

Harry smiles weakly. “ _Neither was I,_ ” he replies, running his hand soothingly down the other man's spine.

Finally, he pushes him back slightly, just enough to see his face. “ _My_ _dearest friend,_ ” Harry says affectionately, marveling at the openness in Merlin's expression. “I'm so sorry this took so long to happen.”

 _And then,_ he can't help what he does next. The kiss is soft, _almost_ chaste, landing just on the corner of Merlin's slightly agape lips. Harry feels him draw in a small, surprised gasp, tensing a little. But then, he allows it and their lips graze lightly against each other for a long moment; a little inquisitively, a little tentative—a quiet, tender, _almost_ question.

It's kind of a test at first. They owe it to both each other and themselves to give the small chance the chance it deserves, but on the same token, it's also a way to maybe prove this isn't what they want and perhaps never has been.

That it's never _really_ been about this.

Still, Merlin's mouth does eventually open to his and while there's surprisingly little heat to it; less passion than either had anticipated, there's still some curiosity, and there's a little bit of a challenge too, a little bit of playfulness as Harry feels the other man's tongue flit daringly against the tip of his own.

 _See, I'm not that bad at this,_ seems to be the message Merlin's attempting to convey—as if he's making up for that first sloppy embarrassment of a kiss they'd shared so many years ago as foolish young men.

Frankly, Harry gets just enough proof to accept that. For all intents and purposes, Merlin kisses Harry a bit like he does everything else in life, with practiced, skillful, technical efficiency and in a way, the way Harry returns the kiss is to prove to his long-time handler, whom he knows has witnessed far too many of his honey-pots, that this is what it's really like when it means something, when Harry isn't _just_ going through the motions.

What it turns out to be is a mutual apology for years misspent in denial and regret, for precious time lost, for too many missed opportunities, and finally, too reaffirm everything they mean to each other—and for all that, it's bittersweet when it's over.

When they finally break apart—when they finally pull back enough, Harry is pleased to find Merlin's cheeks are just as flushed as his own feel and his eyes are warm.

Merlin chuckles softly. “Got what you wanted, drama queen?”

“I believe as much,” Harry grins.

“Well, at least that's done with,” Merlin declares, returning to his drink. “Honestly, felt less unfaithful than I'd expected it might.”

Harry knows exactly what he means. “Tristan's a lucky man,” he replies fondly.

“I'll be a lucky man if I can get him back,” Merlin mutters, pouring back the rest of his scotch.

“I'll be a lucky man if I can even convince Eggsy to talk to me,” Harry sighs, collapsing back in his seat.

Merlin gives him a sympathetic smile. “Another glass?”

Harry holds it out for another refill. “Might as well just pass me the bottle.”

“You know,” the other man says slipping back down in his chair. “The problem is this. You're very charming, Harry, but it's not easy to tell if that's just _you,_ or if you actually mean anything by it.”

Harry grimaces. “I have a confession to make.”

Merlin blinks at him. “Surely we've had enough of those for one evening?”

“You already figured out that when I was away, that I had broken the silence with Eggsy. Well, I may have done more than just that,” Harry prefaces cautiously, gauging the other man's reaction before continuing.

Merlin's eye's narrow, his expression less than pleased. “Go on.”

“You see, having watched him for some time, I'd had gleaned the fact that he might've been more interested in me than previously suspected.”

Merlin raises an eyebrow. “Can't imagine what you saw, and frankly I don't particularly want to, but it must have been pretty overt considering how stubbornly dense you'd been about it for so long.”

Harry cringes a little. “ _Perhaps,_ ” he concedes. “At any rate, it was enough to give me some hope.”

“And what, may I ask, did that 'hope' compel you to do?” Merlin asks warily.

Harry pauses to top off his glass again. “I... may have _also_ sent him a few little things in the mail.”

“Clearly I should've kept my eye on your credit card receipts you sneaky son of a bitch.”

“I only bring this up because those gifts were...” Harry feels himself colouring a little, “They were not _quite_ of the most platonic nature.”

Merlin stares at him, not sure whether to be scandalized, horrified or amused. “What did you do, send the lad some assortment of _butt plugs and remote control vibrators?_ ”

“ _Dear lord,_ of course not!” Harry bawks.

“Then what the bloody hell _did_ you send him?”

“Courting gifts,” he explains, still recovering from his horror. “Little things. Thoughtful things. Gloves and flowers, a tie, a pair of cufflinks.”

“I see, and how did he respond?”

“Unexpectedly poorly.”

Merlin's forehead furrows with confusion.

“For example, at first he'd try on the gifts and he seemed quite pleased. It all seemed very promising,” Harry explains, “But then he wouldn't use the items. Instead, he'd pack them away out of sight. There was also an heirloom. A Welsh love spoon. I instructed him where it was, and I'd meant for him to have it. On Valentine's day no less.”

“Can't be more obvious than that,” Merlin intones.

“I agree,” Harry sighs sadly. “I couldn't have been. He left it behind, however.”

“He did take the rest of the items with him when he moved, right?”

“He must have but I've seen no sign of them since. If he ever so much as looks at them, I suppose I wouldn't know,” he admits.

“He certainly took the Porsche quite happily.”

“At least there's that,” Harry frowns, finishing his drink. He glances between Merlin, the empty glass and the bottle pointedly.

“Sorry to say, I'm cutting you off, old man,” Merlin grins.

“Stingy bastard,” Harry mutters under his breath.

Merlin frowns at him, shaking his head. “I've said it before and I'll say it again. You're an idiot.”

“I really wish you'd tell me how,” Harry remarks unhappily.

“He's clearly misunderstood your intent,” Merlin points out. “When he discovered you were alive, he also figured you'd be coming home. What he interpreted from that, was that he would be obliged to return to you your home and everything you'd left to him. He very likely figured these little tokens you sent him were merely some form of repayment, some sort of apology.”

“And the shp- the spoon?” Harry demands, slurring a little. _Alright,_ maybe he _has_ had a bit too much to drink.

“You said yourself it was an heirloom. He most likely thought it wouldn't be polite to take it with him.”

“ _I gave it to him_ ,” Harry insists, trying his very best not to sound so terribly petulant but clearly failing.

“Stop acting like an infant and man up. I mean _God forbid_ you be direct. Just bloody tell the lad,” Merlin snorts. “At this point, what do you have to lose? You said yourself he'll barely talk to you.”

“Absolutely impossible.”

“Nothing impossible about articulating a fucking sentence: ' _Eggsy darling, I want to fuck your brains out and if you would be so good as to consent to marrying me and having all 15 of my children it would really be quite spiffing.'_ There. Not so difficult.”

“Your impression of me leaves something to be desired,” Harry mutters grumpily.

“I thought it was pretty spot on, myself,” Merlin sniffs.

“For you information, I've never said 'spiffing' in my life, _old chap._ ”

Merlin laughs. “I'm going to have to make up the guest bed aren't I?”

“I could always just sleep with you,” Harry suggests, smirking.

“ _Lord give me strength,_ ” Merlin grumbles, pulling a hand down his face. “Why do I put up with you?”

“Because you love me.”

Merlin shakes his head. “You're lucky I do, because if I didn't, your sorry arse would be booted _straight to the kerb,_ ” he retorts, pushing back out of his chair with a tired grunt and offering Harry his hand to pull him up as well. “Now let's see about finding some spare sheets, shall we?”

“You take such good care of me,” Harry grins, humouring the man.

Merlin heaves a world-weary sigh. “Get upstairs, you sorry slob.”

–

“It was Harry wasn't it?”

Eggsy blinks at Roxy, baffled. “He what now?”

“It was Harry that gave you the spoon,” Roxy says, swinging at his face.

Eggsy ducks just in time as her gloved fist flies over his head. “Oi, not the money-maker!”

Roxy hops to the side of her opponent, trying again for the same target, but only managing to clip the edge of his chin.

“I've no idea what yer' talkin' about, mate,” he replies, swirling around quickly to avoid another incoming punch.

“Harry gave you the spoon, and now for whatever reason you're being a ninny and avoiding him.”

Too surprised by her insightful comment, Eggsy doesn't duck back in time to miss the blow to his sternum, and with a winded oomph bounces off the ropes of the boxing ring.

“You're bloody _lethal_ today,” Eggsy exclaims whipping over to evade another pummeling.

He throws back a punch but only manages to cuff her a little in the shoulder, but it's enough to force her backward for a moment to catch his breath.

“Someone's got to beat some sense into you,” Roxy grins, wiping her sweat off her face with her arm.

“I don't know what you're on about,” Eggsy defends, glancing off to the side as she hurdles forward.

“You'd have to be blind not to see it,” Roxy remarks. “The way he looks at you? The way you look at _him?_ ”

Eggsy gapes at the other agent incredulously. “Are you off your trolley?” he huffs, “No one's lookin' at anyone.”

“Come off it,” Roxy demands. “The two of you are positively smitten with each other. It's kind of pathetic, really.”

“Nah, mate, you've got your head on backwards.”

“Time-out,” Roxy calls, loping over to grab her water bottle. Eggsy grabs his towel wiping off the sweat dripping down his face.

“So why aren't you talking to him?” Roxy asks, leaning against the ropes.

“What? I talk to him all the time!”

Roxy side-eyes him skeptically. “ _Right,_ ” she drawls. “For debriefings maybe.”

“Look, not that it's any of your business,” Eggsy huffs angrily, “But we was 'sposed to be friends, yeah? And then he pulled that shite, pretending to be dead, and he didn't tell me. Pretty fuckin' low of him, if ya' ask me.”

“Oh, really, Eggsy,” Roxy sighs. “He eventually told you, didn't he? I mean, he did send you a love spoon on Valentine's day after all.”

Eggsy grits his teeth. “Fine. He sent me a fuckin' spoon. So what? Not like it means nothin'.”

“You _nitwit,_ ” Roxy laughs, “That's like the most romantic thing I've ever heard of.”

Eggsy blushes. Then he's angry with himself for blushing.

“I mean, _honestly,_ would it really hurt you to put the poor man out of his misery? Whenever we're just hanging out in the lounge after meetings and he tries to catch up to you for a visit, the second you spot him you make a beeline for the exit and he just stares after you like a kicked puppy. Eggsy, it's the _worst._ ”

Alright, he's got to admit, he _does_ feel a little gutted picturing that. “Look, it's like this, alright? There's just... there's something that happened. He kinda found out I was a little gone on him, you know? And I think he was 'prolly feelin' pretty guilty about everything so he just tried to make it up to me a little. Was just pity. That's really all it was and if he wants to be friends it's 'prolly 'cause he still feels like a piece of shit about everything.”

“Oh, Eggsy,” Roxy sighs, shaking her head. “You are _so_ dense.”

Eggsy sweeps a hand over his hair to smooth back his wet bangs from his forehead. “He's _Arthur,_ Rox. Bit outta' my league, yeah? I mean, he always has been, but now he _really is._ Even if what yer' sayin' has any grain of truth to it, don't mean we can do nothin' about it.”

“Interoffice relationships happen all the time here, you twerp. On all levels. Nothing in the books against it. Trust me, _I've checked._ ”

“Yeah, actually, so have I,” Eggsy admits sheepishly. “It still don't make any difference.”

“You're so convinced it's one-sided, but that's because you won't _talk_ to him.”

“ _No point_ ,” Eggsy mumbles.

“You have to be proactive about this. Harry's a catch, Eggsy. If you don't grab him up, surely someone else will. Noticed Geraint checking him out the other day, in fact.”

Eggsy scowls. The new Geraint is prettier than most models. Helps that she's also smart as a tack and Olympically fit.

“Hell, if you're not going to go for him, maybe I will,” Roxy teases.

Eggsy seethes.

“Fortunately for you, I doubt he'd show any interest. I happen to have heard on the grapevine that your Harry's as bent as a nine-bob note.”

Eggsy licks his chapped lips and folds his arms across his chest. If she's right, that _does_ help her case. “Really?” he asks uncertainly.

Roxy shrugs. “Can't say for sure. Maybe you should ask him yourself.”

“Oi, you don't just stroll up to a bloke and ask 'im whether he likes the ol' hole or pole.”

“Alright, well, you certainly _don't_ do it _that_ way. There is such a thing as subtlety, you know.”

Eggsy huffs. “I'm still not going to ask Harry bloody Hart if he's a bleeding poofter.”

“Well I should bloody well hope you wouldn't phrase it in those terms,” Harry replies.

Both agents whip around in shock to find the man casually leaning against the door of the gym.

 _Jesus Christ._ “An' just how long you been over there spyin' on us?” Eggsy demands, face burning.

“Long enough to wonder why the two of you are discussing my sexual preferences rather than sparring.”

“I apologize if we said anything out of line, Sir,” Roxy quickly replies to cover both their asses.

“Not at all,” Harry smiles pleasantly. “I only came to inform you that Percival was looking for you. He needs confirmation for target practice this evening.”

“Oh, right. Of course. If you run into him again, tell him I'm on if he can take me,” Roxy grins.

“I'll be certain to do so. Oh, and one more thing,” Harry says quirking a grin. “While frankly I find it disturbing my personal life should be something of gossip on the 'grapevine', you've heard quite correctly, Lancelot. I am, as you put it, _'bent as a nine-bob note'._ ”

Harry winks at Roxy and glances a small, warm smile back at Eggsy before heading back out the door.

Eggsy gapes dumbly after him, shell-shocked.

“If you tell me that wasn't flirting, I'm going to punch you.”

Eggsy gives Roxy an unimpressed frown. “You're gonna punch me anyway.”

“Well that's true,” she shrugs. “Still, when I'm right I'm right!”

“Will you shut up about it already?” Eggsy scowls.

“I don't know. Depends,” Roxy grins deviously. “Here's an idea. You hit the floor first and you have to agree to talk to him. I hit the floor first, and I'll say nothing further.”

Eggsy narrows his eyes at his friend, considering the challenge.

“Alright, mate,” he grins. “You're on.”

Roxy's grin spreads into something that almost makes Eggsy want to tap out.

Of course, she then proceeds to beat the ever loving crap out of him, the grin remaining plastered over her face the entire time until Eggsy's started to associate pain with that damned grin, flinching reflexively every time he catches a glimpse of it. Fuckin' Pavlovian thing that it is, when he's lying on the floor blinking up at her, he almost wants to cry a little bit when he sees it's still there and wider than ever.

“I won,” Roxy announces cheerfully.

Eggsy frowns.

Looks like he'll be talking to Harry after all. 

 


	13. Chapter 13

It's really totally unfair, Eggsy thinks, pushing himself off the mat after the little birdies circling over his head eventually disappear.

On a good day, _hell, most days,_ he really _can_ hold his own in the ring. Hand-to-hand combat is practically his thing here. He's light-footed and street-smart and what he doesn't always have in learned technique he makes up for in quick improvisation. Not to mention, between his training in the Marines, Harry's guidance during his candidacy and the instruction of Kingsman's demanding sparring coaches—one, an intimidating Russian bloke plucked right out of the KGB whom had, in his youth held the title of world boxing champion, and the other, a former CIRO operative and skilled martial artist with several black belts to his name—both with zero patience for laziness, Eggsy really _does_ know what the fuck he's doing.

Still, he slips between the ropes hobbling off the stage with his tail tucked between his legs. Roxy had fucking _clobbered_ him. Granted, she'd got a bee in her bonnet about the whole thing with Harry, lending her an extra edge which was only aided by his distraction after the sneaky bastard popped in on them virtually out of nowhere, catching an earful of gossip about himself, only to confirm the rumour with a cavalier wink in Roxy's direction and a pointed smile for Eggsy before strolling out with a bounce in his step, a cat-that-got-the-cream sparkle in his eye and a cocky, shit-eating grin plastered across his face.

Eggsy heaves a long, frustrated sigh.

It's not that Roxy's not damn good herself, but getting his arse so thoroughly handed to him like this is still a bit of blow to the ego.

“Someone's in a snit,” Roxy smirks, tossing down the contents of her water bottle.

Eggsy shoots her a wounded frown. 

“Oh cheer up, you grouch,” she laughs, flexing her fists after freeing them from her gloves. “Don't be such a sore loser.”

“Take it easy, will ya?”

“You're the one whose got his knickers in a twist.”

Eggsy throws her a sulky pout. “You didn't haffta' rail on me,” he sniffles.

Roxy rolls her eyes. “You're such a cry baby _._ ”

“Oi, lay off, Eggsy harrumphs, “Quit pickin' on me.”

“Someone's gotta give your chicken arse a shove.”

“ _I'm not a chicken,_ ” he mumbles petulantly, slinging his gloves over to his bag as Percival enters the gym, toting a rifle bag over his shoulder.

“Hello, Galahad _,_ ” he greets. “Ready for a few rounds at the range, Lancelot?”

“Watch out, mate,” Eggsy warns him. “She's on fire today.”

Percival glances between the two agents, grinning proudly at his protege after eyeing Eggsy's face with amusement. “So I see. You're going to need some ice for that,” he remarks.

“Yeah, yeah,” Eggsy mutters, licking the blood off his split lip angrily and snagging his gear off the bench. Stalking past the other agent as he makes his way toward the exit, he catches a glint of something on the man's hand he's never noticed before: a wedding band next to his signet ring.

_Isn't that interesting._

“Oi Percy, didn't know you were married, bruv.”

Percival's brow furrows as he looks down at his hand. “Ah, I must have forgotten to take it off this morning,” he replies, quickly twisting the ring off over his knuckle and pocketing it. “Thanks for reminding me. The wife would have my head if I scratched the bloody thing again.”

Eggsy shoots a discreet glance back at Roxy whose mouth is twisted in a small, tight frown. _Well, well, well. So it's good, old, Percival, isn't it?_ Apparently he must be the 'married' bloke she'd been referring to back on Valentine's day. Eggsy gives her a knowing grin, waggling his eyebrows and Roxy's eyes narrow at him in warning: _don't you dare._

Eggsy shrugs, promising nothing. _Now he's got dirt on her, she can't make him do shit._

Percival stares between them with a bewildered frown. “Everything alright?”

Roxy trots past her mentor ignoring the question to catch up with Eggsy, snagging him by the back of his shirt just before he can duck an escape.

“ _Oi_ , watch the goods,” Eggsy yelps as she shoves him through the exit out into the hall.

“Give us a sec',” she calls back to Percival before pulling shut the door behind them. Once it's just the two of them, Roxy corners him with a sharp, angry scowl.

“You funny in the head or sumfin'?” Eggsy exclaims, “What're you-”

“ _Look Eggsy_ , I know exactly what's going on in that skull of yours,” she accuses, tapping him hard on the forehead. “But don't you think for one second I'm going to let you back down on your end of the bargain.”

“Ain't like I don't got ammo on you now, Miss Hypocrite,” he retorts, folding his arms defensively across his chest.

Roxy glares at him, frustrated. “I'm trying to help you, you big idiot. It's for your own good.”

Eggsy snorts. “Think I can make up my own mind 'bout what's good for me, thanks.”

“Fine, if you're going to be like that, I guess you leave me no choice,” she scowls. “Because, I for one, am _not_ a coward.”

Suddenly, Roxy is pushing him back into the gym and Percival is staring at the two of them like they've both taken a few too many knocks to the head.

“Percival,” Roxy demands. “Galahad thinks I should be up front with you about something.”

The agent blinks at his protege. “Alright?”

“You know how he's been shunning Arthur, treating him like a pariah?”

The corners of Percival's mouth pull up in a small grin. “I've observed as much.”

“We've had enough of it, Eggsy,” Roxy informs him flatly. “It's causing everyone to talk. It's bad form.”

Eggsy scowls.

“So we made a wager,” she explains to her mentor. “If I beat him fair and square, he was going to stop acting like a bloody wanker, only he thinks he doesn't have to keep to it because he thinks he's got something to hold over my head.”

Percival frowns.

“The fact is, Besty and I talked awhile ago,” Roxy reports. “I know about your _less than traditional_ arrangement.”

A light of understanding dawns on the agent's face and he colours a little.

“I want in,” she tells him point-blank. Eggsy draws in a gasp. _Holy shit._

Percival stares at her blankly. “You want in,” he parrots, dead-pan.

Roxy shrugs. “Absolutely.”

“Our families are very old friends,” Percival points out, shrugging his bag off his shoulder and sitting down on the bench. “I should think your parents would hardly approve.”

“I'm positive the three of us will be able to comport ourselves with the appropriate discretion one would expect,” Roxy defends. “Besides, you know my mother and father hardly have room to judge considering their own past infidelities.”

Percival flinches. “This isn't about infidelity-”

“I'm perfectly aware,” Roxy interjects confidently. “I have the utmost respect— _and admiration_ for both you and Betsy, and I think you've noticed that. _I think you've noticed me._ Betsy has certainly intimated as much and I'd be greatly honoured if the two of you would consider my proposal.”

“The three of us, will of course, have to sit down to discuss this in further detail. _Privately,_ ” he adds glancing warily over at Eggsy before returning his gaze to Roxy. “Perhaps you would be inclined to join us for supper this evening?”

“That would be lovely,” Roxy replies solemnly, reaching over to shake her mentor's hand as if they've concluded conducting some kind of formal business agreement. “Right after I'm done slaughtering your record down at the range, of course” she reminds him.

“I would expect nothing less,” Percival grins, his eyes warm.

“I'll meet you outside after I tidy up,” she tells him, taking her leave and guiding Eggsy along with her with a firm hand planted in the middle of his sweaty back.

“Er, see ya' later, Perc',” Eggsy bids awkwardly as he's led out of the gym.

“Indeed, Galahad. And good luck with Arthur,” he smirks.

 _Oh yeah,_ Eggsy remembers, cringing. _That was the point of this._

Once they're back out in the hall in front of the locker rooms, Roxy spins back around on her heel with a victorious grin. “So there you have it. Now you have _no_ excuse.”

“You're a madwoman,” Eggsy exclaims, floored.

Roxy lifts an amused eyebrow at him. “Not the first time I've been called as much.”

Eggsy groans. “I can't believe you just propositioned your mentor with a threesome just to prove a point.”

“It was all for a good cause, and serves to all our benefit,” she replies. “I'm glad I tackled the whole thing head on, feels good to get it off my chest. I know you'll thank me later once you've done the same.”

“You so certain of that, mate?” he asks a little skeptically.

“I'm one hundred percent certain about everything I do,” Roxy replies with a confident swish of her braid as she pushes open the door to the locker room.

Eggsy shakes his head in amazement, following after her. “You're a little scary sometimes, Rox, you know that?”

–

A hesitant knock on the door to the office pulls Harry's attention out of his work.

“I'm in,” he announces.

Eggsy pokes his head inside with a small, anxious frown. “You got a moment?”

“Always for you, my dear,” Harry replies warmly, rewarded by a small blush. The agent looks down at his desk, scoping out the pile stacked in his inbox and winces.

“If this isn't a good time, I can always come back later-”

“Don't be silly, Eggsy. I've nothing here that can't wait. Please, come in. Take a seat,” Harry insists, waving his hand to usher the young man inside.

Eggsy enters, closing the door behind him quietly but he remains put, ignoring the invitation to sit down.

Harry takes a second to examine him, allowing his eyes to linger a bit longer than wholly necessary: the young man's freshly showered hair is slicked back and his suit is neatly pressed and he looks positively _edible._

However, his outwardly polished presentation seems at odds with his overall air of insecurity; he shifts his weight uneasily between his feet, fixing his gaze down at the floor with a strained look of discomfort, flushing hotly under his mentor's too openly admiring gaze.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Harry asks, pushing away his reports and closing his laptop.

Eggsy clears his throat. “Er, I thought it's kinda been awhile, yeah? Thought I'd pop by for a visit. Just to catch up or whatever, you know?”

Harry's eyebrows just about jump to his hairline. “I see. Well, this _is_ a pleasant surprise,” he points out, just on the teasing edge of chiding.

Eggsy loiters by the entrance for another long second, his hand hesitating on the door knob as if he's still debating bolting back out, but finally, he appears to come to some decision, and with a steely look of determination, marches inward, pulls out a chair and plants himself in it emphatically.

“Harry, we gotta talk.”

Harry blinks, surprised by the young man's boldness. Frankly, he hadn't expected him to cut right to the chase and he has to admit: it's pretty courageous. He can't help but feel rather proud of Eggsy and he allows that sentiment to slip into his smile.

“I concur,” Harry replies evenly, folding his hands and laying them out on the desk in front of him. There's some psychology behind this of course: hands displayed in full view conveys an air of openness.

And it's exactly that openness he desires to encourage in Eggsy who seems for the moment, appalled by his own bluntness and quite ready to curl back into himself.

The young man's eyes hover over Harry's hands for a moment and he lets out a breath, relaxing a little, which incidentally draws Harry's attention down to his mouth. He frowns with concern, noticing the swollen split in his bottom lip.

“Are you alright?”

A small grin pulls at the young man's mouth and he winces, forgetting that doing so is probably a bad idea. “Ah, this? It's nothin',” he dismisses, pulling a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket. He unfolds it to dab at the cut but decides better of it a second later, wary of staining the thing. Harry glances down at the fabric, noticing the small G embroidered in the corner and his heart catches. Eggsy's eyes flit up to his, going a little wide as he realizes what's caught Harry's interest and quickly crumples the handkerchief in his fist, tucking it back away into hiding.

Harry decides not to bring up the matter, keeping his pleasure carefully concealed and pushes the tissue box on his desk over to the young man.

Eggsy gratefully accepts both the tissues and Harry's silence as he cleans the drop of blood from his mouth. The smear of it leaves a red tint to his lip almost the same colour that's staining his cheeks and Harry swoons a little at the sight.

“Lancelot throws quite the punch doesn't she?” he remarks, clearing his throat.

“I'll say. Bloody mean one at that,” Eggsy exclaims.

“She did seem to have it in for you today,” Harry grins.

Eggsy leans forward with something interesting in his expression. “So, thought since Roxy's been yappin' about you, it's only fair you get a bit a' gossip back,” he prefaces. “Little tit-for-tat, yeah?”

“I was under the impression that Lancelot was your friend. Isn't that a bit... _disloyal?_ ” Harry cautions.

“A little,” Eggsy shrugs, “But you won't tell, will ya? Besides, she kinda has it comin'.”

Under normal circumstances, Harry would resist endorsing such a thing, but in this case, eager to encourage the young man's confidence, he decides to go along with it.

“Very well, go ahead and, as they say, 'spill the beans'.”

“So apparently, turns out she fancies Percy, n' from what I could tell,” Eggsy relates, “Looks like he fancies her right back.”

Well, that's news to him. Harry wonders a little suspiciously at the young man's motive for bringing such a thing to his attention—if it's to perhaps point out the fact that the two agents are mentor and protege, which would, of course, inevitably draw a certain, rather specific parallel to his and Eggsy's _own_ relationship. Harry tamps down his burgeoning hopes and raises an eyebrow. “It was my understanding that Percival was married,” he points out, frowning a little.

“Well yeah, but see, it's not like that. Percy and his wife got an open marriage, like, they're swingers or somethin' I guess. Don't know what ya' call it. But they're all gonna get on some kinda hot _menage a trois_ action,” Eggsy smirks, waggling his eyebrows.

Harry chuckles softly. “While I admit, this is certainly _amusing,_ you know my position requires me to remind you that we do _try_ to avoid discussion of our colleague's personal lives, which extends to each other's sexual proclivities, however... _unique_ and tempting to spin into gossip.”

“ _Juicy gossip,_ though,” Eggsy laughs.

It's damn good to hear him laugh, Harry sighs, his pulse beating a little more quickly. They haven't shared this sort of easy camaraderie since before he left.

Eggsy smiles back at him a little shyly. “I missed this.”

This time, Harry's heart really does catch in his throat and he can tell by Eggsy's red ears that the way he's gazing at the young man is far too adoring to be innocuous. “I missed this too, Eggsy,” he replies meaningfully.

Eggsy looks down at his hands splayed over his knees. “Look, I know I've been a right twat to you since you got back,” he forges on mustering a little more bravery than he'd had previously, “But I just want you to know, it's nothin' personal. I mean, you didn't do nothin'. In fact, you've been downright decent 'bout everything. It's just that, well, I guess I've been feelin' a bit weird about what happened.”

Harry nods understandingly. “I would share that sentiment.”

The tip of Eggsy's tongue slips out to moisten his lips, worrying over his cut for a moment and Harry can't help but follow its progress, captivated.

“I uh...I just want you to know, that I appreciate the uh... the things you sent. Was real nice, yeah? N' like I said b'fore, yeh really dinnit haffta',” Eggsy says softly, his elocution slipping back to his rougher origins a little more than usual.

“ _As I said before,_ I _wanted_ to.”

Harry sucks in a breath as this is rewarded by a sweet, glowing smile from the young man that practically lifts him aloft.

“Harry,” Eggsy says, looking across at him uncertainly, “I know things have been, you know, _awkward,_ but do you think it would be possible to be friends again?”

“ _My dear boy,_ ” Harry breathes, melting a little as Eggsy instantly flushes a hot pink at the endearment, “I've _always_ been your friend. I have all along, and I always will be.”

–

After that, it's not so terribly hard to be friends. Or at least, _behave_ in a manner reflective of that, and they fall back into the old routine pretty easily.

It's only that Eggsy really _doesn't_ want to be friends. _Well,_ he does, but he wants more than that. Wants more of Harry—more _from_ Harry, but he doesn't know quite how to _get_ that, or even if he deserves it.

He's lucky he's got this much.

Still, as brilliant as it is to be Harry's friend, it's not without it's drawbacks, and sometimes, it feels a little too close to torture.

In those rare, precious days between missions, Harry takes him out to lunch and tea and supper and sometimes even meets him for breakfast in the mornings. They spend a tremendous amount of time together.

They talk about anything and everything under the sun. They laugh and joke and Harry even teases him a bit once in awhile. Sometimes, the man's behaviour even seems to border on the edge of flirtation, but Eggsy quickly dismisses the idea. It's not possible. Harry is only his friend, he reminds himself a little dejectedly.

But then, at the same time, Harry's less reserved around him than he used to be: more free with him—more free with his smiles and his praise and his tiny touches, and his eyes linger over Eggsy so warmly and with such admiration sometimes it makes him squirm. And then there's the _bloody endearments._

Eggsy can't help but wonder, _a little terrified_ , if that was something else Harry had seen; when he'd thought he was alone, when he thought no one could possibly see or hear him and he'd talk to himself as if he _were_ Harry—

_My dear-_

_My darling-_

_My boy-_

_My God,_ it fucking _kills_ him whenever the man uses such terms to refer to him.

_Had he also seen him wank off to that, sitting on his couch in his fuckin' robe?_

The thing is, Eggsy kind of, in a very small way, hopes so. Because that means, that if Harry had, and he still wants to be around him, and factoring in how incredibly lovely he is to him _all of the time,_ then maybe, _just maybe,_ there might be a slim chance he _does_ reciprocate his feelings.

Harry's ridiculously _fine_ and Eggsy can't help it if sometimes he feels his stomach flip with excitement and he gets just a little hard when the man looks at him the way he does—the way his eyes sometimes seem to strip Eggsy naked—as if he's imagining all the sinful things he'd like to do to him.

Another thing is, Harry starts giving him little things again. He commissions him another suit for instance, almost identical to the one he had made for him before—the one that Eggsy had messed up quite beyond repair after taking out Valentine.

He also gives him new bowls for JB, a copy of Pretty Woman (which _Christ, if that isn't a bit heavy on the implications Eggsy isn't sure what is)_ and then there's a watch. A really gorgeous, outrageously _expensive_ watch, which Eggsy honestly doesn't know why he's so staggered by because honestly, the man had already bought him a fuckin' _Porsche._ Still, there's something pretty intimate about the gift. Friends just don't give their friends _ten thousand_ pound _Omegas'_.

But a bitter voice in the back of his head keeps whispering that it's all only wishful thinking—just Harry taking pity. Eggsy had grown up not quite impoverished or totally deprived or anything, he'd always had the basics, but he'd never exactly lived in the lap of luxury before, and Harry has seemed intent on ensuring he at least gets a small taste of it every now and again.

Not that they go out to the _poshest_ restaurants or attend the ballet every night or anything. Much of the time, they just run out for sandwiches or curry at that little hole-in-the-wall down the way.

They settle into a kind of easy-going routine like that and it's all really fairly comfortable.

The only thing Eggsy couldn't help but notice, with a small twist of regret, was that, Harry often declined invitations to his house and seemed rather reluctant to extend any invitations to his own.

At least until this evening.

It starts off with just supper as it usually does. Harry picks him up in his Bentley and whisks him out to a swanky little place with candle light and small tables and even smaller portion sizes. The drinks flow and the food is exquisite, but not quite as exquisite as the feeling of Harry's fingers grazing along his wrist or his hand lightly settling on his back for a little too long or the way their feet touch under the table a little by accident because of the proximity and Harry doesn't pull back from the contact or flinch away when Eggsy very shyly tries to mirror him, occasionally letting a hand fall on the other man's bicep as they laugh about something or another, or smooth over his forearm with the feigned excuse of straightening out a crease.

“So, do you like my tie?” Eggsy asks, grinning a little. “It's the one you got me,” he points out, running a hand down the fabric proudly.

“It complements your eyes just as I'd hoped it might and seems to go very well with that Tom Ford you're wearing. Does Dagonet know you're cheating on him?”

Eggsy laughs. “Don't mean to be disloyal to Kingsman or nothin', but sometimes a man's gotta have a little variety in his wardrobe.” _Besides, your closet was packed with Armani and Prada and the like,_ he doesn't say, not exactly wanting to ruin the moment by reminding Harry of the uncomfortable fact that he'd raided the man's wardrobe for _months_ in a desperate attempt to feel closer to him.

“Regardless, you never fail to look fetching, my dear,” Harry compliments.

“ _God, Harry,_ you're makin' me _blush_ ,” Eggsy whines, blushing.

“It's a look that suits you,” Harry replies, his smile and gaze swimming with as easy and open a warmth and affection as his remark.

“If you don't quit talkin' like that you're gonna give a bloke ideas.”

Harry's eyes twinkle with mirth. “That's the idea.”

Eggsy doesn't have time to counter with a good retort as their waiter comes back to their table to deliver their desserts.

“ _Oh my God,_ ” Eggsy groans around his forkful of crème brulee, “This is fuckin' _divine._ ”

His next bite is just as marvelous as the first, and he closes his eyes to savour the sweet, rich, creamy burst of pleasure, singing on his taste buds before licking his lip to retrieve the small morsel of decadence he'd missed on the way into his mouth.

After a moment, he finally notices the odd fall of silence as his companion fails to say anything in response and Eggsy glances back up at him to find Harry is peering back at him through heavy-lidded eyes, his pupils blown and his expression almost feral.

“Wish you'd ordered this instead of the tart now, dontcha'?” he laughs nervously, darting a look over at said dessert left neglected in front of the man and the fork he's gripping in his hand a little _too_ tightly.

“Hardly need to eat a tart with one sitting directly across from me,” Harry chastises, his voice hoarse and a little angry.

_Well that's a bit fuckin' rude._

Eggsy blinks. “ _Excuse you?_ ”

“Do you even realize what a _spectacle_ you're making?” Harry hisses, glancing around a bit jealously.

Eggsy gapes at him, taken aback. “What're you on about?” he demands, following Harry's paranoid glance around at the other patrons, most of which are ignoring them save for a very few that quickly look away with a faint, slightly flustered blush the moment he meets their eye. “Aw, come off it,” Eggsy snorts. “They just want a taste of this fuckin' delectable dessert,” he reasons, trying for modest to placate whatever's crawled up Harry's arse, but the man's looking at him as if to say, _that's not the only delectable thing they want a taste of._

“You're a very handsome man, Eggsy, people notice,” Harry tells him flatly.

Eggsy feels a bit too warm around the collar suddenly.

He flashes his companion a teasing grin. “You one of those people?”

Harry's unimpressed, pursed frown is all he wins for the effort.

“Don't tell me you're _jealous_ , mate.”

“Don't get ahead of yourself, _sweetheart,_ ” Harry warns him, returning with a pointed smirk Eggsy can't help but feel is a little at his expense.

“ _Dick,_ ” he mutters.

Harry breathes out an exasperated sigh and shakes his head. “Sometimes I _do_ wonder if you have even a drop of sense in that pretty head of yours.”

_Did Harry just call him 'pretty'?_

“No sense whatsoever,” Eggsy snickers with a suggestive leer as he licks his spoon obscenely enough to warrant a small disapproving cluck of Harry's tongue.

“I can't take you anywhere, can I?” Harry grumbles.

“Oh, you could _take_ me wherever you want, _love,_ ” Eggsy retorts, wrapping his mouth lewdly around another bite of his dessert.

Harry narrows his eyes and doesn't deign to respond, but instead, he lifts a piece of his own dessert to his mouth, parting his lips ever so slightly and hovering over the thing with his eyes locked onto Eggsy's: _two can play at that game._

Eggsy hears himself whimper a little in anticipation and then finally, _finally_ Harry closes his mouth delicately over the tines of his fork and his eyes shutter closed, groaning a little indecently around the bite.

He watches his companion swallow; fixed to the bob of his adam's apple peeking out from the collar of his shirt and feels himself harden in his pants, thanking all his lucky stars that his lap is hidden out of view by the table.

Alright, so it's a taste of his own medicine, _granted_ , but it's still not very nice.

“You're the devil 'imself,” Eggsy accuses when Harry reopens his eyes, smirking at him triumphantly.

When the check arrives, naturally Harry grabs it first before Eggsy can even see the amount, which he's assuming is probably a bit excessive considering the extravagant prices he'd seen on the menu. He shakes his head with a small exasperated sigh. “You don't gotta foot the bill for everything, you know. I got a pretty good job, actually.”

Harry closes the book around his card and smiles at Eggsy indulgently. “It was my treat.”

“You don't have to _pay_ for my company,” Eggsy mutters, wincing a little afterward as he realizes how that could possibly be taken out of context. “I mean, we could always just dine-in. I know my way around a stove,” he adds quickly.

“That's a lovely idea I'll likely take you up on then, and one I'd certainly be inclined to return. We can compare how our cooking rates against each other.”

“It don't have to be no competition,” Eggsy grins. “I don't mind a sous-chef.”

“Ah, but you know what they say about too many cooks in the kitchen.”

“Nah, I won't cramp your style, mate. I'll bet we'd work great together.”

Harry's small smile in response to this alerts Eggsy of the inadvertent double-meaning and he blushes for probably the hundredth time in an hour. Harry doesn't take pity on him, instead, latching onto the comment.

“I'm quite sure we will.”

 _Fuck if that doesn't sound like a promise,_ Eggsy thinks, his hands balling his napkin in his lap nervously before he realizes it would probably be good etiquette to fold the cloth over his cleared place setting as Harry had done.

“Drinks at mine or yours?” Harry asks, replacing his card in his billfold after the waiter returns with it.

 _Finally,_ Eggsy grins. “Think you've got the better selection, Harry.”

Harry scribbles his name on the receipt and pushes the book to the edge of the table.

“Excellent,” he replies, glancing back at Eggsy. “Shall we, then?”

They arrive back at Harry's place just after nightfall and Harry goes to fix them both a martini. Eggsy watches him expertly prepare the drinks, a nostalgic smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he observes how the man does it just as he'd once taught him: gin, not vodka, _obviously,_ stirred for ten seconds while glancing at an unopened bottle of vermouth.

“You spoil me, Harry,” Eggsy replies as Harry hands him his glass. 

“As much as you let me,” he replies, giving him a slightly suggestive grin.

Eggsy hears himself utter a small, tormented groan. “ _Harry,_ you gotta stop saying things like that.”

“Not if it means depriving myself of your charming reactions,” he replies, taking a seat on the other end of the couch. Eggsy reckons that while Harry _is_ on the other end with enough space for at least two other people to fit between them, it's still an improvement from sitting in the chair across from him.

“Are you _flirting_ with me, Harry?” Eggsy grins teasingly.

Harry smirks. “I've not a clue what might've given you _that_ impression,” he replies with an encouraging touch of sarcasm.

It's incentive enough to embolden Eggsy and he returns to Harry an award-winning smile. “ _Oh, Mister Darcy!_ ” he gasps, fluttering his eyelashes and fanning himself theatrically.

Harry shakes his head fondly. “ _Oh,_ _Miss Bennett,_ my feelings will not be repressed! You must allow me to tell you how _ardently_ I admire you,” he exlaims, playing along.

“Oh?” Eggsy grins, “And how _do_ you admire me?”

“ _You have bewitched me body and soul_ ,” Harry confesses, and for a second, it's so convincing, Eggsy's jaw drops open a little, almost forgetting they're only just pretending.

“You're actually quoting the book aren't you, you awful romantic,” Eggsy laughs, amazed.

Harry shrugs a little sadly. “A bit of a hopeless one, actually,” he admits. “But I would be terribly appreciative if you kept that to yourself.”

“ _Why?_ ” Eggsy demands in disbelief. “You don't even have to be a _hopeful_ one. _Bloody hell,_ Harry, spout a little poetry like that and you'd be crawlin' up to your eyeballs in folks fightin' to get a bit a' you. Besides, not like you ain't fuckin' fit,” he adds, blushing a little at the last admission.

Harry snorts. “I haven't exactly been looking to affix another name to mine, Eggsy.”

Eggsy blinks. “You say that like you mean it in the past tense,” he replies observationally.

“Literally speaking, considering what you know of my inclinations, I'm sure you're aware such a thing was hardly feasible, let alone _legal_ until a couple years ago. But if we're speaking in broader terms, I'd point out the fact that I've been rather preoccupied with my job. Finding love, while certainly a pleasant thought, hasn't been of the highest priority.”

“Hasn't been',” Eggsy remarks. “So it is now? That mean you got your eye on someone?”

He doesn't like the painful wave of jealousy he feels at the thought.

“I should think that would be plainly obvious,” Harry sighs, taking a sip of his drink.

A small burst of hope spikes through Eggsy and he bites his lip to contain himself before he ends up saying something hastily that will likely embarrass them both. “Then you've already said something to... this bloke?”

“I'd certainly thought I had,” Harry remarks, staring at him with a small, perplexed frown.

Eggsy frowns back at him, equally perplexed. “Then why has nothing come of it?”

“I'd rather hoped something still might,” Harry replies carefully. “Perhaps I've still been too subtle in my approach,” he considers still staring at him. “Could...could my intentions still _truly_ be so unclear?”

Eggsy swallows thickly and ducks his head, utterly depressed. “Mate, no offense, but I don't think I'm the best one to look to for relationship advice.”

Harry's eyes widen in almost comic disbelief for a second, before he quickly evens his expression. “Oh? And why, pray tell, is that?”

Eggsy scowls. “You know why,” he mutters a little more bitterly than he means to, but _fuck it._ Maybe the prick _should_ hear just how terribly he's hurt him.

“I honestly do not.”

“ _Fuck,_ Harry. It's not fuckin' fair of you to be talkin' to me about some other bloke your tits over tail for when I'm sittin' right here and you know exactly how I feel 'bout you.”

Harry is quiet for a long minute and Eggsy wants to curl up and die.

“What is it you feel for me, my boy?” He asks softly.

“You know I'm gone for you, bruv,” Eggsy confesses a bit resentfully, setting down his drink before he can spill it. “I think I have been since I first met ya'.”

Harry's eyes are heartbreakingly kind and far too amused as he looks at him and Eggsy feels his chest tighten with both a little anger and a lot of loss and then Harry is setting down his own drink and laughing until he's got tears of mirth forming in the corners of his eyes.

“ _How_ on earth could you _possibly_ think I'd be coming to you for _relationship advice?_  I've years more experience than you in quite literally _most things,_ Eggsy, I mean, it's very _sweet_ of you, you _darling_ boy, but _really._ ”

Eggsy blinks at him, not sure whether to be offended or baffled by the fact that the man seems to have completely neglected the point.

“You must know, from the bottom of my heart how deeply I regret giving you any cause to mistake me, Eggsy. I really, truly had thought I'd been clear, that everything I've done couldn't possibly be misunderstood—”

It's very likely the worst rejection he's ever gotten. Granted, it's not as if the man's not being incredibly compassionate and kind about it, but Eggsy's never felt so wretched—so _shattered_ and utterly humiliated in his life and just the thought of enduring another second of this torment is more than he can tolerably bear.

“I get the point,” Eggsy replies coolly pushing out of his seat. _He's not gonna fuckin' break down in front of Harry. He's not._

Harry stares up at him, confusion written across his features. “Eggsy-”

“Thanks for the dinner, Harry, and you know, havin' me over. I'll show myself out.”

Harry jumps out of his seat as Eggsy storms toward the door.

“Eggsy, you must stop this instant,” he orders, bounding toward him and grabbing him by the arm.

Eggsy shakes him off, “Please don't, Harry, just let go.”

“You misunderstand-”

“Yeah, I got it the first time, mate,” Eggsy bites out, cutting him off. “See ya' around,” he replies slamming the door behind him. Of course, not a second passes before the door swings back open and Harry is bolting after him. Eggsy grins, crushing the tears threatening to spill from his eyes—they can't catch him if he runs from them, and neither can Harry for that matter—not that the man's out of shape by any means, but pretty much _no one_ can out sprint him. He does happen to hold the current record time on the HQ race track, after all. He doesn't look behind him but he's sure at some point he's lost the man. 

Not that he ever had him in the first place it turns out. 

But running is good. It's purifying. 

When he runs, all his thoughts: the good, the bad, the ugly and everything in between clear out of his head, until it's just his spirit in it's truest form against the wind—everything else gets left in the dust.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy, we are getting close to the end. Can u feel it?  
> I can. It feels like soft pillows and a long nap.


	14. Chapter 14

Running was not perhaps, the most well thought out course of action, Eggsy realizes in retrospect as a bolt of lightening splits across the sky followed shortly by a crack of thunder rumbling overhead.

And just like that—like some kind of perfectly timed joke at his expense, the clouds open up.

The irony isn't lost on him, but by the same token, it's kind of a God send. The unexpected deluge serves to conveniently obscure the streets from the combing eye of the CCTV scanners as well as afford some relative anonymity to the unlucky pedestrians dashing their way toward their destinations. Most rush past him with the barest acknowledgment, harried to duck for cover under any accessible eaves or awnings and the passing motorists pay him no more heed than the occasional pitying glance.

Really, it's a relief. It had all finally caught up to him and the midsummer night's storm makes for a great excuse to finally give in and let slip a few of the frustrated, angry tears he'd selfconsciously been struggling to hold back; the deafening downpour both drowning out the sound of his short, choked sobs and helpfully washing away the evidence from his face.

He can only imagine what kind of a picture he makes: some lonely, pathetic boy in a posh suit, drenched to the bone, fleeing on foot through an upscale London borough in the middle of the night like some kind of fugitive. The last thing he wants to do is add 'crying' to the mix.

“ _Boys don't cry,” Dean had drummed into his head countless times over the years and he wasn't wrong._

It sort of had became something of a motto.

_'Boys don't cry,' Eggsy had mumbled through gritted teeth, just barely scraping the edge of seventeen at the time as he'd limped out of some stranger's flat and stumbled home, used up and humiliated, wad of cash heavy in his pocket—_

_'Boys don't cry,' he'd whispered resentfully to his reflection in the window on the bus leaving base, his future a bleak thing in his mind and wracked by guilt for mourning it; his mum's cracked and inconsolable voice begging him to come home replaying in his ears over and over again—_

_He'd said it again when his mum had wrapped her arms around him, clinging to him desperate and frightened and knocked up with Dean's child._

Then, there was that one time back in training as a candidate: Eggsy remembers being decked hard in the jaw and smacking the ropes. Stunned, his gloved hands had shot up to protect his injured face and he'd grimaced, pressing shut his watering eyes as he'd tried to overcome the sharp pain shooting through his ear. He'd glanced up then, and in the split second where he still could've dodged out of the way, suddenly the image of Dean in a splitting rage transposed itself over his lunging opponent, reducing Eggsy back into that terrified child he'd once been so many years ago when his stepfather had first introduced him to the true meaning of injustice with staggering, brutal clarity.

Dean had come home one evening pissed off his gourd and he'd backhanded Eggsy across the face for some bitter remark he'd muttered under his breath. The bruise had been there for days and he'd stewed about it, staring up at the ceiling at night plotting his revenge. And then, a few days later he'd seized the chance. His mum had been held up late at work again and Eggsy had raided the fridge, chucked out the beer into the dumpsters in the back lot behind the council houses, and then he'd gone back inside and poured the booze down the sink. He remembers watching the alcohol as it had swirled down the drain, buoyed by a rush of spiteful satisfaction. He'd then replaced the empty bottles back where he'd found them and hid in room, prepared with naive courage to face down whatever the consequence. He'd known he was in for it, but that night, it wasn't the belt he'd got—it was a fist.

Dean had staggered in through the door, shit-faced as usual and bent out of shape over losing at the tables again. He'd gambled away a good chunk of their cash in those days down at the pub and Eggsy had gone to bed more than once with his belly grumbling in protest.

He remembers hearing the man rampaging through the kitchen like a herd of angry elephants, stomping around and swearing, slamming shut the fridge and throwing open the cupboards before finally bellowing for him. When Eggsy had refused to come out of his room, Dean had busted through the door, marching in with his red, sweaty face twisted in a furious scowl. He'd yanked him up by the collar of his shirt with one meaty, hard-knuckled fist and hefted him to his feet.

“ _Oi, let off me!”_ Eggsy had gasped, trying to twist out of the man's grasp.

“ _Tell me boy, why're we all outta shit t' drink 'round here?”_ Dean had demanded, the tendons bulging out of his neck. _“Where's me fuckin' beer? Where's all the fuckin' liquor gone off to, eh? Yeh been nickin' me shit, yeh little cunt?”_

“ _I dunno' wotcher on about, pops,”_ Eggsy had denied, angrily shoving at the man's arm.

“ _Don't yeh get funny wiv me, yeh fuckin' liar, I'll skin yer hide ri' offa' yeh if yeh don' come clean wiv me,”_ Dean had roared, a fleck of spittle flying out of his mouth and landing on Eggsy's cheek. He'd recoiled, his nose scrunching up with disgust and glared back rebelliously, refusing to grass up to the bastard.

“ _I ain't got nothin' to do wiffit',”_ Eggsy had defended, squirming to get out of Dean's grip with a little more desperation as he'd eyed the pulsing vein popping out of the middle of the man's forehead.

“ _The fuck yeh don't,”_ Dean had spat. “ _What'd yeh do wiv it all, yeh little fuck? Eh?”_

“ _I swear I don' know nothin',”_ Eggsy had shouted as the man towered over him, his nostrils flaring like a bull about to charge; violence flaring in his narrowed eyes like a promise.

“ _Yeh swear it on yer life?”_ He'd demanded, his voice lowered to a dangerous pitch. _''Cause let me help yeh get yer facts straight, boy. Yer life ain't worth shite. Yer a liar and a worthless little leech. Actin' like yer entitled t' the shirt on yer back that I gone put there wif me own fuckin' paycheque and then turnin' around n' givin' me lip like yeh think yer real fuckin' smart. So, I'm gonna ask yeh one more fuckin' time an' if yeh don' level wiv me, I'm gonna give yeh a clobberin' ye'll be feelin' well into next week, capisce?”_

“ _My mum's gonna have a fit if-”_

“ _Yer mum ain't here right now, is she, Mugsy?”_ Dean had cut in, his mouth curling up into a shark-like grin _. “An' I put the roof o'er both yer heads, don' I? Ye'd be out on the kerb if it weren't fer me, an' she damn well knows it, so yeh better believe she won't be comin' t' yer rescue, sonny boy.”_

Eggsy had nervously gulped, his voice suddenly useless; any last ditch defense turning to dust on his tongue as he'd gaped back at the man. In that moment, Dean had looked as sinister as a monster woken up from the very depths of his darkest nightmares.

Then he'd slugged him. The blow had landed straight to Eggsy's gut, winding him and he'd crumpled to his knees. He'd wailed on him for another good, solid minute before finally letting up. Afterward, Eggsy had slunk against the wall, curling into himself in agony, tears slipping down to his chin. Dean had loomed over him blocking out the light behind him, and as Eggsy cowered in his great, black shadow, he tried to make himself as small as possible.

“ _Please, don' hit me again,”_ he'd pleaded, his voice pinched into a tiny whisper.

“ _'Please don' hit me again',”_ Dean had mimicked, mocking him. “ _Look atcha' snifflin' and whimperin'. Yeh some kinda fuckin' little pussy, eh? Man up, yeh little faggot,”_ he'd chastised, chuckling cruelly, “ _Boy's don' cry.”_

And then reality had come crashing back to Eggsy. Once again, he was standing in the ring, and his opponent was charging for him. However, instead of deflecting like he'd easily could've, he'd reflexively flinched and the second blow had knocked him to the mat.

Merlin, whom had been scoring him on the whole sorry show had later pulled him aside.

“ _Never let anyone see your pain,”_ he'd told him. “ _Whatever haunts your past is a weakness you must learn to either forget or overcome. Vulnerability can always be exploited. You hand your enemy the advantage. In this case, you handed the advantage to your opponent and you got handed your arse, but out in the field, lad, you stand to lose more than your pride. That kind of mistake can cost you your life. Let this defeat serve as a lesson to you in the future.”_

So yeah. He doesn't cry if he can help it. Hadn't done so in years and certainly not more than once before in recent memory, and that time had also been about Harry.

_Fuckin' Harry._

Harry's always the fuckin' exception.

Eggsy had known for a long time he was just a little bent, but fancying blokes wasn't like the general rule for him by any stretch. Not until Harry, anyway, and then before he'd realized it, the fucker became the _goddamned rule._

Thing is, until the day the man had actually straight up confirmed it down in the gym, Eggsy wasn't even sure Harry had swung that way. Knowing for sure had given him hope. He's always known that was a dangerous thing to have, but Harry had to have known of Eggsy's interest and he'd never said up front if he'd minded. Of course, there was the obvious uncomfortable issue of him being his boss, not to mention the whole summer-autumn thing, but it hadn't ever hampered their friendship and _besides,_ lots of couples had an age gap, it wasn't a big deal unless Harry was making it one.

And then, he'd been almost outright flirtatious with him for weeks. Between the gifts and going out so often on what had almost felt like dates, Eggsy had sort of wondered if Harry had been, in that old-fashioned, gentlemanly way of his, trying to court him. Damning thing that spoon had been, right? And then just this evening, everything had seemed to ramp up a notch. The dessert, the drinks afterward?

Christ, last time someone looked at him like that, he'd gotten laid.

Granted, he's far from unfamiliar with the silly, flirty banter that bounces back and forth between good mates just to take the piss, _hell,_ he'd watched Ryan and Jamal pull that shit for years to the point of most folk in the estate giving them the side-eye, but never once did he ever catch either bloke's eye wander from anything that wasn't a very obviously feminine curve.

But, it turns out, Harry's got his eye on someone else, and if Eggsy's honest about it, it's not like he couldn't see it. The whole thing makes a hell of a lot of sense now that he thinks about it.

So he'd heard the rumours. It was impossible not to. Kingsman was a little borderline incestuous in that regard. You weren't supposed to technically know anyone else's business or pry into it for that matter, but it was impossible to keep an ear from perking up at the passing gossip. After all, they were all in a rather interesting line of work, so it had to stand to reason that their lives outside had to be somewhat colourful in nature as well.

Merlin had so adamantly denied it though. _“Never have we engaged in anything of the sort nor nurtured any want to.”_

_Yeah bloody fuckin' right._

But like the man had said to him, he was a 'private sort', and if anyone had ever been a stickler for upholding in-house or out-of-house secrets, it had always certainly been Merlin and out of respect for the man, Harry had clearly thought it best to keep that secret.

What Eggsy can piece together from all the information he's got, is that they've had some kind of on-again off-again fling going for years. It's the only thing that makes sense.

He just wishes one of them would have spared him the embarrassment. Here he'd been pining after Harry for well over a year, and neither had thought to kindly direct him elsewhere.

Well, at least he had gotten his dossier already from Harry several days ago and he'll be leaving for his next assignment tomorrow. That means he won't have to deal with the man until after he gets back and hopefully by then, he'll be a bit more ready to face him again.

Harry had chased after him and Eggsy's sure he'd pounded the pavement for a bit, or at least returned to grab his car to try to hunt him down, but Eggsy is pretty sly when it comes to knowing how to make himself disappear when he wants to. He didn't need Kingsman to train him on how to do it either, that had been a skill he'd learned on the streets out of necessity.

He gets that Harry wants to apologize and fuck if he doesn't owe him one. Regardless of whether he'd meant to, surely the man had to know he'd led him on, but at the moment, all he wants to do is forget Harry bloody Hart ever existed and that means that in the mean time, he's going to have to go to his mum's for the night. Somewhere Harry can't readily get a hold of him. After all, Eggsy thinks, grinning a little, even after all these years, he reckons the man's still just a little afraid of her.

Another flash of lightening rips through the sky, pursued quickly by an even louder clap of thunder and Eggsy wraps his arms around himself, shivering a little and slowing his pace as sheets of rain dump down on him. It's a cleansing rain, like a heaven-sent baptism or something. When he gets back from his mission, he'll have to start a new chapter of his life. One that won't include Harry beyond an exclusively professional capacity— _however much that hurts._

He arrives in Barnet less than an hour later, apologizes to the cabby for the damp seat he leaves behind with a double tip and tries to steel his expression, hide his devastation behind a convincing smile.

His mum (bless her soul) doesn't ask when he shows up unannounced and soaking wet just past midnight to crash in the spare bedroom, but she does, with her mother's intuition, look at him in that quietly quizzical, sad and sympathetic way of hers and invite him inside. Eggsy feels himself break a little as she hugs him, holding him a little bit like she had when he was a child and for a moment, burying his face in her shoulder, he feels a few tears leak out, dampening the fabric of her shirt. She doesn't bring attention to the fact, but Eggsy does feel her fingers stroke soothingly through his hair as she rocks him tenderly in her arms.

“Oh, babe,” she sighs, “You know you only need tell me if I need to break someone's kneecaps.”

Eggsy laughs and squeezes her tighter. “I love you, mum.”

“Me too, love, me too.”

He sneaks out before dawn—before his mum can guilt him into staying for breakfast, planting a kiss on the soft cheek of a groggy, confused Daisy and giving one last really good hug to his mum.

“I'll be alright,” he promises, not bothering to do her the disservice of pretending he _is_ alright.

“Call me if you need me, doll, and please take care of yourself.”

–

There are certain privileges to being Arthur, and one of those is that he can keep his eye on Eggsy throughout his mission. As expected, the daft, stubborn little twit had flown the coop before Harry could catch him.

After the young man had fled from him the other night, he'd found sanctuary in the Church of Michelle Unwin, and like some kind of vampire, it was the one place Harry couldn't go—the grounds consecrated not by liturgical blessing, but by the begrudging anger of a mother whom had never quite forgiven him for being the bearer of bad news.

Even if it's terribly frustrating, he has to admit it was a pretty clever move on Eggsy's part.

Harry drags a hand down his face. 

The whole thing is beyond ridiculous: one, bloody infuriating, immense misunderstand, that could've easily been resolved had he been given but a second to do so. In fact, if he wasn't so utterly beside himself with concern for the young man, Harry thinks he'd almost be inclined to laugh. The situation is really dreadfully cliché: a perfect comedy of errors.

“You are in a very peculiar mood,” Merlin observes.

“You stated that rather carefully.”

Merlin grins. “I like to think I've managed to improve my usage of tact over the years,” he replies. “I brought your favourite.”

Harry lets out a long-suffering sigh as the man plops down a stack of reports and follows this by plopping down in the chair across from him.

“You know just how to brighten my day, my dear,” Harry drawls acerbically, tossing a disgruntled frown at the pile.

“Why do I get the feeling there's some trouble in paradise?”

Harry pinches the bridge of his nose. “I seem to have found myself in a bit of a quandary. It's all really a rather ludicrous situation and quite perplexing.”

Merlin's eyes narrow curiously. “I'm listening.”

“To put it all as succinctly as possible, Eggsy has come to the very unfortunate and erroneous conclusion that my attention lay elsewhere.”

Merlin gawks at him. “How the _bloody hell_ does that even happen?”

Harry's laugh is a little self-deprecating and very exhausted. “To be perfectly honest, I'm not entirely sure. It's as if he's being willfully dense. I've done everything I could think of to make my intentions clear— _crystal_ clear, Merlin, and he'd seemed responsive. Until the other night, I was certain we were on the same page.”

“ _Heaven help me,_ ” Merlin huffs, exasperated. “Dare I ask what happened next?”

“He decided to go for a run in the rain.”

Merlin rolls his eyes in disbelief. “Good Lord. So what do you intend to do about it?”

“Well, I can't very well interfere with him mid-mission, so I suppose I'll have to sit here like some bloody tosser counting the seconds until he returns, won't I?”

“Why always the _drama_ with you?” Merlin asks, clapping a hand on his forehead. “I swear, Harry, sometimes your life seems to rival some kind of bit of absurdist theatre.”

“Speaking of theatre, I heard Tristan dragged you out the other night. Did you enjoy the show?”

Merlin grins. “To be honest, I much preferred the show afterward.”

“I don't expect details,” Harry replies curtly.

“ _Green with envy_ ,” Merlin smirks, but his smile is a little sympathetic.

“To be fair, I'd rather hoped to reclaim Arthur's desk for myself by now.”

Merlin has the good sense to look contrite. “Can we ever cease mention of that?”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Harry replies. “I could never let you live down such a thing. It would be terribly remiss of me as your _dearest_ friend to do so. Besides, as I said, I have every intention of repeating the scenario-”

Merlin snorts. “I'd like to remind you that you're the head of a very respected institution and that you're expected to lead by example, and I harbour some serious doubt that engaging in such lewd behaviour would make for a very exemplary model.”

“First pull the plank from your brother's eye, then remove the plank from your own,” Harry replies drolly.

“ _Well,_ ” Merlin coughs, “It might be a bit hypocritical of me, but we all know the tech department is far beyond salvation. Even if anyone down there ever _did_ find out the tawdry details I'm sure they wouldn't be _too_ terribly scandalized.”

“Or even surprised for that matter. At least your handlers at any rate. I'm sure they'd likely think the entire thing frightfully dull.”

“Considering some of the _er...rarer_ selection of sights I've witnessed over the years-

“You mean _depraved_ sights I believe,” Harry corrects.

Merlin grins. “You call them 'depraved' only because you happen to be _deprived._ ”

“ _Twist the knife, Merlin._ ”

“As I was saying, considering all of what I've seen, I can certainly attest to the fact,” he agrees. “But either way, if you do genuinely intend to break with decades of Kingsman's most time-honoured and upstanding principles to exact your revenge against me, then I find myself fully prepared to support your decision.”

Harry smiles and shakes his head. “Very considerate of you, old friend,” he sighs, “But at the end of the day, it's all only hypothetical until matters are sorted out and a certain young man is set straight.”

“I'd point out that setting a certain young man _'straight'_ would hardly serve in your best interests.”

“One would endeavour to avoid such an outcome,” Harry concurs, chuckling softly.

But it does plant a small seed of doubt. “Say, Merlin, I recall some time back you mentioned something to Eggsy regarding a certain princess, may I ask what came of that?”

Merlin snorts. “Well, according to Eggsy's report, certainly neither of _them._ ”

Harry frowns. “Care to elaborate?”

“During the whole Valentine operation, as you're aware, there were a few high-ranking individuals of various nations held prisoner down in the bunker. Princess Tilde was among them and she had apparently made arrangements with your lad to show her appreciation for his acts of valour in a rather sexually servicing manner.”

Harry narrows his eyes. “In _how_ sexually 'servicing' a manner may one ask?”

“Oh, just your typical anal variety.”

Harry blanches.

“But as I said, nothing came of it,” Merlin reassures him quickly. “Honestly Harry, you should really be quite flattered. The lad could've had himself a lovely young princess and instead he's gone in for a curmudgeonly old ponce.”

“Well, when he gets back I'll be sure to make it clear that the curmudgeonly old ponce would like to achieve whatever he'd failed to with said lovely young princess.”

“Judging from your overall failure thus far, I'd encourage you to phrase it more or less exactly like that.”

–

When Eggsy gets back, the first thing he does when he gets to HQ is wait in the lounge to be debriefed, as evidently, _Arthur_ is still in a private meeting.

Eggsy's knee bounces up and down nervously. He'd kind of had wanted to get this over with, collect JB and go home. The thing is, he has an entire well rehearsed speech he means to deliver. He intends to calmly and very rationally explain to Harry that while he appreciates everything the man's done for him, there is simply no way he can conceive of continuing this farce of a friendship. He doesn't have friendly feelings for Harry, he has horribly, inconveniently, tragically, desperately, irrevocably _romantic_ feelings for the man and he doesn't foresee that changing anytime soon.

Eggsy knows he's going to have to get over it. They _both_ know he's going to have to get over it—but getting over Harry, at the moment, seems like an insurmountable prospect.

Can he be professional? Absolutely. But imagining spending any further time in the man's company—knowing what they both know—would be pure and hellish torment. Harry would be constantly careful around him wouldn't he? Eggsy can imagine a stiff, wooden version of the man that will now know better than to say anything too kind or let his touch become too familiar, and every difference would be so obvious and feel so magnified and horribly, painfully awkward that he's not sure he could endure it.

Even thinking of being near Harry crushes him.

 _Even worse,_ is thinking about Harry being with Merlin. Obviously, from what he'd been told the other night, clearly there's still a little to be worked out there, but they haven't quite had a chance have they? Eggsy's been pretty selfishly consuming most of Harry's time for weeks and Harry's obviously been too polite to mention it—to mention that he'd _rather_ be spending his time in Merlin's company.

The thought stirs up quite a bit of both resentment and jealousy and Eggsy grimaces.

This is all yet another reason why he needs to break off this thing with Harry. Give the man a chance to be happy even if Eggsy can't be the reason for it. Harry deserves it, he decides, sighing. He's such a fucking _good_ man.

He just really wishes Harry could be _his_ good man.

Eggsy stares down resignedly at his oxfords before finally remembering his tea on the end table.

He takes a sip and frowns. _Damn thing's gone cold already._ Harry seems to be the cause of a lot of cold cups of late, he thinks before suddenly overhearing the tail end of the conversation between Bedivere and Kay.

“—Indeed. Madeline joined my sister-in-law and her husband out to the theatre the week before last and she told me she saw him there with a certain handsomely dressed bald man with a splendid Scottish brogue. She's such a sucker for the highlands. Makes a fellow feel a touch inadequate every now and again. Last year I had Dagonet rustle up a bit of magic into a kilt just to spice it up a little,” Kay laughs.

Bedivere shakes his head in amazement. “Our own favourite, surly egghead, _finally_ settling down after _all these years_ , who would've imagined?”

“Inspires a bit of awe to actually see it materialize, considering, well...  _you know_.”

“Oh, that was all just a silly bit of gossip, wasn't it?” Bedivere chuckles.

“Well, one has to say, the two _have_ seemed rather close since the beginning, have they not?” Kay asks, lowering his voice as he catches sight of Eggsy. Eggsy quickly darts a glance out the window as if he'd only been looking around and not in fact eavesdropping.

Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck. They're talking about him and Harry.

"Perhaps, but I would caution to remind you, that it's not quite fair to jump to such conclusions. After all, we do know Merlin is quite spoken for now."

 _Yeah, thanks, for the reminder, assholes,_ Eggsy huffs.

"Not to mention, there is that other matter. One _does_ see one's eyes glancing elsewhere upon occasion, if you catch my meaning." 

Oh, so now they're talking about _him_. Not like he's sitting right here or anything. But who's he supposed to be making eyes at? Roxy? Granted, Eggsy does occasionally hang out with her outside of work.

Kay's eyes widen, "You make an intriguing point."

"Besides, while the latter has some circumstantial and even some observational credibility, it has no real concreteevidence to support it."

Alright, so now they're discrediting any possibility between himself and Harry. Eggsy doesn't know whether to be relieved, or march over and tell them exactly why he and Harry  _should_ be together.

"You awful old hen, you just like the scandal."

"Possibly," Kay concedes, "But one could certainly make an argument for it." 

“I admit, when one considers their interactions there is some merit to it and it _does_ invite some pause for speculation. But you must agree there is something a bit less than orthodox about it, isn't there?" 

 _Less than orthodox? He and Rox?_ Eggsy frowns. Hadn't Bedivere married a coworker himself?

“In an  _interdepartmental_ context, perhaps,” Kay shrugs, "But no rules against it, and they really are rather suited for each other."

“I wouldn't disagree with that assessment.”

How lovely, Eggsy thinks sarcastically. They approve of him and Roxy together. He can't wait to share the good news. Maybe Percival and troop have a fourth slot open he could sign up for.

“So I digress, this whole to-do with Merlin. It is really awfully surprising. I never thought it would come to pass. While he and Merlin had indeed seemed close for awhile, they'd had something of a falling out, hadn't they?”

“Well, they seemed cordial at any rate, if a bit more distant that usual,” Kay relates.

 _Ah,_ that would explain why Merlin had expressed such abject insult at the idea of being with Harry back when Eggsy had originally asked about it.

“But it's quite a relief they've reconciled.”

Kay grins. “I'll say.”

Eggsy _won't._ He's not exactly _keen_ to join in the celebration. If they ask him to bring a cake to the party he's not altogether sure he wouldn't lace the fuckin' thing with arsenic. 

“So Galahad, by your murderous scowl I can tell it's about time we invite you into the conversation, surely you've an opinion on the matter?” Bedivere inquires, smirking wryly over at him.

Eggsy sucks in a breath. “I have no opinion on the matter personally,” he replies a touch too defensively.

“It's like that is it?” Kay remarks, quirking a slightly bewildered grin.

“I try to stay off the back fence,” Eggsy informs them humorlessly.

The two agents share a look. “Well, appears as if good old Arthur's turned a _prig_ out of a libertine!” Kay snorts.

Bedivere shakes his head. “Will the surprises never cease?”

Before the two old gossips have a chance to form any inconvenient suspicions about his attitude, Eggsy decides to amend his prior statement. “Fine. If you want my opinion, I think it's great. Merlin and Arthur are probably good together, yeah?”

Kay blinks at him confused but Bedivere on the other hand, looks like someone just told him he'd won the lottery.

Kay frowns. “Merlin and... _Arthur?_ Don't you mean-”

Bedivere glances at the other man frantically with a kill-switch look, and Eggsy can't see what exactly the man does from where he's sitting, but whatever it is, it makes Kay yelp. He shoots Bedivere an affronted scowl and Bedivere returns with a pointed raise of an eyebrow.

Eggsy stares at the scene a little perplexed by whatever just passed between the two but clearly Kay is now in on whatever it is.

“Everything alright, mate?” he asks, uncertainly.

“Absolutely, never better,” Kay grins, sharing a very in-cahoots side-glance with Bedivere.

“Yeah, you two aren't weird as all fuck,” Eggsy mutters, shaking his head at the men.

“Say, Galahad, you're-”

“I beg your pardon, gentlemen,” Merlin interrupts, stepping out of Arthur's office, “I believe Galahad is due for his debrief.”

“Ah, rubbish timing,” Bedivere grumps, snapping his fingers.

“Oh, and _Harry_ ,” Merlin calls fondly back into the office, “We're still on for tonight as usual?”

Eggsy can't quite make out Harry's response, but whatever he says, Merlin's smile is far too pleased by it and suddenly, it's all he can take. He's had about fucking enough without them rubbing it in his face to boot.

“Galahad?” Merlin calls out, “Where do you think you're going?”

“Think I suddenly came down with something. Probably something I ate this morning didn't sit right,” Eggsy excuses unable to look any of the men staring at him in the eye. “Give my apologies to Arthur, will ya? Tell him we'll have to reschedule.”

Then before he can make his way fully out of the lounge, Harry's there, standing in the doorway of his office looking at him with a worried frown. “Could I escort you to medical?”

“Nah, thanks,” Eggsy replies flushing hotly, “Think I'm just gonna duck out for the rest of the day, head home n' sleep it off.”

Knowing well enough that he's been rebuffed, Harry seems to visibly deflate. “Very well, Galahad,” he sighs. “Do rest and check in with me in the morning.”

“Will do,” Eggsy replies as politely as possible before getting the fuck out of there.

–

Harry drops his head face first down on the desk.

Merlin who's followed him back into his office out of concern, closes the doors behind him and sighs. “Harry?”

Harry groans, wrapping both arms over his head. “Merlin, would you be so good as to cancel all further meeting I have today and extend my especial regrets to Bedivere and Kay who've so patiently waited for me all afternoon?”

“Harry-”

“I can't work like this, Merlin.”

Harry hears Merlin heave a long sigh. “So what are you planning to do?”

“I haven't the faintest,” Harry chuckles darkly. “But for the mean time, I think I'm going to follow suit and tap out like Eggsy has. Home sounds like a remarkably good idea right now.”

“What, so you can sulk, you big, delicate daffodil?”

Harry snorts. “ _Fuck off._ ”

“I intend to shortly as I've work that needs to be done—in particular, administrative assistant duties you've so rudely tossed into my lap,” Merlin sniffs. “Honestly. That's a bit below my pay grade.”

“Precisely why I ought to go home. Clearly, I'm no longer capable of sound leadership.”

“I'm going to give you my honest opinion, Harry,” Merlin warns him.

“If it's all the same, I'd rather you not.”

Merlin is silent for an unexpectedly long minute and Harry's curiosity gets the better of him, so finally, he pulls his head out of his arms. “Alright, what?”

Merlin's expression is hard. “You need to knock on that lad's door and force him to hear you out.”

Harry glumly tags along after him into the lounge. “What good will that do? He'll pretend he hasn't heard the doorbell. I'll be standing out there all night, looking quite the fool.”

“But you'll look like a fool for him, won't you?” Merlin smirks. “Bedivere, Kay, I am sorry to announce your debriefings will be rescheduled for tomorrow. In the mean time, you may follow me down to my office and I'll provide you with your dossiers for your next assignments.”

Bedivere acknowledges the directive with an understanding nod. “Arthur, if Kay and I may have a moment?”

Harry glances between the two agents hesitantly, “Can this not wait, gentlemen?”

Kay rises from his seat. “It can't. It's of immediate importance.”

“As well as vital  _relevance,_ ” Bedivere adds.

“Very well,” Harry huffs, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “What can I do for you?”

“We'd both like to apologize, I fear we may have inadvertently had something to do with Galahad's rather hasty retreat just now.”

Harry frowns. “How so?”

“You see, we may have been...” Kay darts an uneasy glance back at Bedivere who looks a little sheepish. “We may have casually mentioned something to each other of Merlin and Tristan's recent...”

“ _Friendship_ ,” Bedivere finishes tactfully.

Merlin scowls. “How is my personal business at all pertinent?”

“Well, we believe young Galahad may have been listening in and slightly...misinterpreted things?”

“To be fair, I don't believe we actually mentioned Tristan by name, so the whole conversation may have seemed a mite ambiguous—a little open for interpretation, if you will.”

Harry shares an unimpressed look with Merlin.

“Oh for Christ's sake, you bloody _morons._ ”

Bedivere winces and Kay recovers for him. “It seems to reason that the young man has the mistaken impression that the two of you are... well, _you've heard the rumours._ ”

“Oh, _good grief,_ ” Merlin groans, glancing up in helpless exasperation at the heavens as if they're visible through the ceiling and somehow able to save him.

“The whole idea of it didn't seem to sit well with him,” Bedivere inserts.

“Frankly, Arthur, he seemed rather bereft,” Kay adds pointedly. “Tried like a trooper to hide it though.”

" _Good grief,_ ” Harry mutters, stealing Merlin's sentiment.

“You meddling old windbags,” Merlin huffs. “I think you've done enough damage for the day, come with me. And Harry?”

Harry's frown pulls longer. “What else?” he asks reluctantly.

“For God's sake, man, pull yourself together and try to look a little less miserable about it,” Merlin orders. “And maybe buy the poor lad some fucking flowers while you're at it. And if all goes well, don't bother to call tonight, in fact, I'll be quite relieved if you don't."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY. So here's some further clarification on the Bedivere and Kay scene if you need any, because hell, even I got myself confused while writing it, SO let's see if I can piecemeal this together for you: Bedivere and Kay are initially talking about Merlin and Tristan, and then they talk about that old rumour about Merlin and Harry and then they discredit it because obviously Merlin is with Tristan (which Eggsy interprets as discrediting any supposed thing between himself and Harry much to his dismay) and BESIDES, someone's eyes are looking at someone (Harry is looking at Eggsy) still, poor Eggsy thinks they're implying that Eggsy's looking at Roxy, the silly goose. THEN, Bedivere and Kay mutually agree there is definitely something to be said about Eggsy/Harry although Eggsy is of the belief that they're deciding he and Roxy are like the totally awesome couple that makes total sense. Finally, the two clucky hens are talking about Merlin/Tristan again although quite obviously, Eggsy thinks they're talking about Merlin/Harry. 
> 
> In short: the Egg's brain is a bit of an omelet at the moment, poor dear, and Bedivere and Kay are basically the middle aged male equivalent of a chatty octogenarian women's quilting club. 
> 
> FINALLY, (phew, wipes forehead,) so the next chapter is either going to be a very VERY long final chapter or I'll split it and there will be two. Can't say for sure, but what I CAN promise, is that this is all wrapping up, folks. Hold onto your seats. Or panties. Either will do.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOT THE FINAL CHAPTER I REPEAT THERE IS MORE

Harry's heart aches wretchedly for Eggsy; imagining the young man belabouring under such a tremendous misconception and suffering so needlessly because of it—the matter only intensified because of the gossiping imbeciles he'd overheard in the lounge.

It's almost more than he can tolerably bear.

His fists clench at his sides the whole way down the lift and the bullet train can't get him back fast enough to the shop. Dagonet glances up at him with mild alarm as he races past him with barely a cursory nod or the customary 'hello'; the chimes at the doors smacking loudly behind him as he rushes out into the street.

Perfectly timed as usual, the cab is waiting for him right outside for Harry to hop into. _The perks of being Arthur,_ he thinks, grinning sarcastically to himself. _At least there's some._

Once he makes it home, he tears upstairs, showers in record time, pulls a razor over his chin and a comb through his hair, changes into a clean suit, flies back outside, jumps into his Bentley and very possibly disobeys one or two traffic laws.

He makes it to Eggsy's flat half past 8, swerving into a vacant spot across the street (technically stealing it from out under the nose of a rather disgruntled looking man in a BMW) and jogs up to the door, heart hammering in his throat. Words prepared on the tip of his tongue, he rings the bell.

No response.

Harry shifts his weight impatiently between his feet as he waits, darting a glance uneasily at his watch before he tries again (because it wouldn't do to push the bell again too soon, of course), but when the young man doesn't answer the door after the third ring, he feels very much like tipping himself off the edge of a cliff.

Slipping his mobile out, he quickly pulls up the Kingsman master app Merlin had installed that links up to all the agent's glasses and mobile devices. Sure enough, while Eggsy's glasses are inside, his mobile is not. This of course means the young man had indeed stopped home, but he hadn't remained there.

Not that Harry had actually bought the excuse that he was sick and would be spending the rest of the evening curled up in bed, but that he's not even home is beginning to make him wonder if some malevolent higher power isn't in fact playing tricks on him.

_Very well, if Eggsy wants a chase, he'll give him one._

A quick scan of the premises tells him the young man's Porsche is still parked in his garage but his mobile is out of range about 15 km north. Sending the coordinates to the search engine, the map pulls up the position. Harry's face pulls into a scowl. He's not unfamiliar with the area, but he's hardly dressed appropriately for it and what he doesn't want to do is draw unnecessary attention to himself. This means he's going to have to make a quick detour back home first to change again and drop off his car.

 _Endless obstacles,_ he huffs. _Fucking likely._

Fortunately, seasoned professional that he is, Harry knows exactly how to chameleon himself accordingly and he's not unfamiliar with the current trends requisite for _this_ particular venue.

Harry narrows his eyes appraising his reflection, scrupulously examining himself from head to toe: clad in a freshly pressed, dark slate button-down with a narrow, crisp plum tie, slim-tailored shark gray trousers with a trimly cut coat to match and polished black oxfords, he decides the overall effect lends just the appropriate air of casual sophistication necessary and after pulling a hand once through his hair to loosen the gel, he flashes a smile at himself.

_This should do._

The cab drops him off just after sunset and the bustling street is clustered with rows of hopping clubs, pubs and and a swinging nightlife scene. Considering it's a Friday night, naturally there's quite the swarm to sift through and the line in front of the club isn't a short one.

Harry spots two burly men flocking either side of the entrance and a well dressed, handsome bouncer studying each hopeful attendee with a judgmental frown. With a quick, gauging glance over his company in line, Harry gleans quickly that while these fellows range in age, he's definitely among the oldest, which he realizes may present a strike against him. In order to preempt the potential issue, he quickly unbuttons his coat and swings it over his shoulder to convey an air of leisurely, stylish confidence and just in case he might need to rely on a little old-fashioned bribery, slips a few notes out of his wallet, keeping them ready in his pocket.

When the bouncer makes his way to him, he eyes him curiously, sweeping a glance over Harry with a thinly guarded look of impressed approval and without saying a word, gives him a brief nod and raises the velvet rope. Harry hears a few muttered groans of disappointment from a few others cued in front of him and grins to himself as passes them; the bouncer hadn't even requested he pay the typical cover.

A keen sense of fashion does have a way of opening doors and in this case, quite literally.

Once inside, Harry takes a measuring look around to assess the situation. The interior ambiance of the club is sleek, modern, dimly lit and the place is already packed almost shoulder to shoulder. In the center, beneath the hypnotically flashing strobe lights, the dance floor is teeming with an attractive selection of men, all bouncing along to the heavy bass of lively trance music thudding out of the speakers overhead.

Prime cruising grounds seem to be located around the bar and as he makes his way over, he can't help but feel a little hot around the collar beneath the few too many eyes trailing over him with less than subtle interest. Still, keeping his head down in the crowd, he decides, will be the best way to keep a low profile while providing a convenient angle of the room to scan for his target. Playing spy isn't exactly a struggle when one actually _is_  one.

“Gin on the rocks,” he orders once he manages to flag down a bartender. Then, quite by serendipity, Harry overhears a laugh he would recognize anywhere coming from across the bar. Sure enough, _there he is_ and a sight for sore eyes if ever there was one.

For a moment, all he can do is gape. Glowing with a sheen of sweat, eyes piercing blue in the neon haze and dressed to kill in a tight shirt revealing every mouth-watering contour of his lithe, athletic form, unbuttoned just enough at the collar to expose the smooth, appealing length of his neck—practically begging to be marked by Harry's teeth—and form-fitting trousers that flatter his arse in a way he thinks should probably be illegal, Eggsy is every most sinful fantasy he's ever dreamed come to life.

“Not for nothin', love, but that look on your face is just a wee much,” the bartender remarks, sliding his drink over to him. “You might wanna turn it down a notch, Romeo.”

Harry cringes a little, glancing back at the bartender. “Thanks,” he mutters.

“Don't mention it.”

Eggsy is saying something now, speaking to someone, he realizes suddenly. _Of course_ , he's speaking to someone, _good Lord,_ he'd been so distracted by the mere sight of the young man he hadn't even noticed. _Shameful oversight._

 _'Years of training, and you've been reduced to this,'_ Chester King's voice taunts inside his head. _'Really such a pity after such a long, illustrious career.'_

Harry glares down at his glass.

_'See, we're not so different after all are we? In the end, in one way or another, we both succumbed to temptation. It'll ruin you, temptation—she's a harsh mistress. But then, it's too little too late for you isn't it, Harry?''_

“ _Fuck off, Arthur,_ ” Harry hisses to himself, tossing back his drink.

He wishes he could hear what Eggsy's saying but he can't make it out over the din.

Scoping out his competition, he hears his breath hitch. The man could _easily_ be Harry's brother or close relation for the remarkable resemblance: similar build and bearing, around the same age give-or-take, same colour hair (but really quite curly), not vastly dissimilar facial structure—it's really a _bit_ uncanny. He would be inclined to be flattered Eggsy had gone after the man over anyone else here if he weren't so suddenly overwhelmed with blind, white-hot jealousy. Eggsy's eyes sparkle with mirth and his ear-splitting grin stretches across his face as if he appears to be genuinely enjoying himself in the man's company and Harry is quite certain if he grinds his teeth any harder he'll surely crack a molar.

He's seen the young man on a few honeypots, but he's never looked this convincingly attracted to any of his marks as he looks around this— _interloper._

He can hear King chuckle. _'Poor, pathetic, lovelorn fool,'_ he mocks, _'And you always thought you were better than me. Almost a shame to see you fall so far, but then, I confess, I never expected better of you. You may have hidden it well from the rest of the world, but I always knew you were too soft—too weak.'_

“Going to crack that glass if you squeeze it any tighter, love,” remarks a stranger sidling up next to him.

Harry spares a slightly irritated side-glance at the man and sets down his drink. Flexing his fist, he realizes the observation wasn't quite misplaced. Still, he has to give him some credit for coming along when he did, his interruption serving to quickly banish the late Arthur back into black recesses of his head where he belongs.

The old bastard is like a bad weed rooted too deep to dig out, popping up every so often in his darkest moments to further antagonize him.

“So I couldn't help notice you sitting over here all by your lonesome looking so perfectly edible and positively _mean_ , scowling down at your drink like it's personally offended you. So I thought I'd offer to buy you another.”

"It's not my drink I find offensive," Harry replies distractedly, barely caring enough to pay attention to what the man is saying as he watches Eggsy lean into his companion as if he's just said something terribly funny and everything about his body language fluently and _conspicuously_ reads that he's _interested_.

“-chat you up a bit, dazzle you with my stunning wit and charming good looks and eventually wear you down into asking me for a turn on the floor,” the stranger finishes.

“I'm not out to pull,” Harry replies curtly, glancing back at the man.

Oh. Harry looks him over in slight surprise. Upon review, it turns out the man's rather startlingly attractive. In fact, before Eggsy became _exclusively_ his type, it occurs to Harry this man would have _more_ that fit the bill: lean, fit, dashingly handsome and fair with bright hazel eyes and light blonde hair...

“You sure about that?” The man asks with a coquettish grin and an air of confidence that tells Harry plainly that he knows he's made a solid impression on him.

“ _Unfortunately_ ,” Harry replies, huffing a small, reluctant laugh, (and he honestly means it).

The blonde glances across the bar to where Harry had previously been staring and a look of realization dawns on him. “Well, that makes more sense,” he replies, “I must say, not to sound _completely_ full of myself, but I don't strike out terribly often. At least now I can see why.”

Eggsy is utterly stunning when he smiles and Harry's heart drops.

“I _do_ assume it's the boy you're looking at?”

Harry neither confirms nor denies it.

“Ex or hopeless case of the ever dreaded _friend zone_?”

Harry huffs a small laugh. “What makes you think I know him?”

The blonde gives him a pitying grin. “ _Please,_ as if it isn't obvious. You're sitting here sulking and torturing innocent glassware, gazing across at that pretty little thing over there as if he's hung the moon. No one looks at a stranger like that. But from where I'm standing, the fellow he's talking to might as well be you.”

 _Astute observation on all accounts_ , Harry thinks, a little impressed and can't help wonder if they're in the same line of work in some capacity. _Charismatic, meticulously controlled demeanor, trained eye..._

Even if he isn't already, Harry's just a little tempted to ask for his card, Kingsman _does,_ after all, rather desperately need to recruit a few more second strings.

“I mean, there is a rather surprising similarity.”

Harry snorts. “Disturbing isn't it.”

“Clearly just a proxy, isn't he? What's stopping you from marching over there and telling the old wanker to take a hike?”

“ _Civility_.”

The blonde laughs. “Coward's excuse.”

Harry turns to look at the man. “I don't recall asking your opinion on the matter. Do you typically saunter up to strangers to dole out advice or are you simply making an exception?”

“I'm bored and you're interesting,” the blonde shrugs nonchalantly. “Alright, fine. I'll mosey off and leave you to your own to pine away in peace, but if you're looking for a way to make your little pet positively _green_ with envy, or if, you know, you decide your time might be better spent elsewhere, I might consider doing you the favour.”

“That's exceptionally generous of you,” Harry replies drolly.

“So is the drink I'm buying for you regardless, you gorgeous, grouchy bastard,” the blonde winks, sliding cash across the bar in exchange for a second of Harry's order before getting up to go.

He can't feel _too_ bad about it, as a dozen other eyes trailing after the blonde seem to brighten up the moment the man leaves without Harry in tow. (Still, he should've asked for that card.)

When he looks back across the room, Eggsy's companion is nodding toward the crowded center of the room and Eggsy is nodding back at him, accepting the suggestion.

 _Damn. Double damn._ The decision is decided in less than a hair's breadth of a second and Harry's out of his seat.

“Hold up,” he calls out, abandoning his drink to jog after the blonde. The man swivels gracefully back around on his heels with a raised eyebrow and an amused grin.

“I've taken a second to reconsider.”

“Is that so?” he drawls, smirking.

“As it so happens, I may require some company on the dance floor.”

“You mean you need an excuse to keep an eye on your boy?”

“If your offer still stands,” Harry replies.

“The name's Garrett.”

Harry inwardly groans. _Just a bit too close to 'Gary',_ he thinks frustrated by the cosmic irony of it all.

“Harry.”

“Now we're on a first name basis, sure, Harry. Go ahead and show me a good time.”

“I make no promises, this isn't my typical scene.”

Garrett squints at him as if he's just said something beyond hilarious. “ _Oh, love,_ don't you worry, I'll help Stella get her groove back.”

“I don't believe I can identify the reference,” Harry frowns.

Garrett rolls his eyes heavenward and interlocks their elbows. “You just come with me, Harry _._ ”

They squeeze their way through the crowd to the floor and Harry spots Eggsy almost instantly, as if he has some kind of built-in radar for the young man.

Eggsy's dancing as if he's alone, even though his partner is less than inches from him; eyes closed, head tilted back and hips swaying in an entrancing way that seems almost unintentionally erotic; purely lost in the rhythm of the music. His shirt is fully open, exposing the broad expanse of his chest and Harry's mouth goes dry as his eyes trail greedily after a bead of sweat dripping down his rippled abs.

Garrett wraps his arms around his waist and Harry cranes around to keep watch. The blonde leans in. “Good view, I hope?” He shouts over the din. He's very obviously enjoying this little secret op they're playing and yet again, Harry wonders if he should at least get a last name so Merlin could run a background check.

“Spot on target,” he replies, flashing Garrett a brief smile before his gaze sweeps back to Eggsy. The young man's companion seems to be just as captivated by the sight of him, as if he can't believe his good luck.

The song changes over, and although the bass is still keeping up tempo, it's quieter and more like the quickening of a pulse. The din settles into something gentler, sexier; and Harry can hear Garrett again when he speaks at nearly normal volume, which is definitely a relief.

“Report?”

“Curious, bored or sadistic?” Harry grumbles.

Garrett quirks a grin. “Not intentionally sadistic, but now I'm terribly curious! What sort of torrid indecency has devolved behind me?”

Harry grimaces, staring at the other two men, vexed by how liberally and possessively Eggsy's companion's hands roam over his body as if it's something he's making claim to; as if Eggsy is something he already owns and has every right to touch.

“They are absurdly too close and far too handsy for my taste.”

“If I didn't know you were jealous I'd call you a prude,” Garrett chuckles.

However, in a matter of a single moment, whatever retort Harry could have slung back vanishes into thin air as Eggsy steals his breath away. Supported by his partner's arm circled behind him, in one smooth motion, the young man rolls back his shoulders and his head follows suit. As if inveigled by a sudden dream, his eyes fall closed, lashes fanning softly against his cheeks and there's something so beautiful and pure in his expression, Harry forgets to be jealous; moved to awe by this unexpected evocation of a young Apollo as he drops into a loose, carefree dip that, however unintentionally performed, results in a perfect c _ambré._

Dumbstruck by this impressively delivered display of natural grace and remarkable flexibility (the last of which stokes the fires of a few creative ways such talent might be explored in a more intimate setting), it doesn't quite occur to Harry he hasn't either moved or breathed for several very long seconds until he's cruelly slammed back into reality by the sight of Eggsy looping his arms around his partner's neck to pull himself flush against the other man.

Harry's heart constricts in his chest as he watches Eggsy smile seductively, gyrating his hips against his partner's like some kind of wanton little tart and when the older man's hands slip up his waist beneath his open shirt to sweep hungrily over every inch of the young man's bared torso, Harry feels a searing, white hot spike of rage burn through his veins.

But somehow, in spite of his nearly murderous level of jealousy, a curl of arousal tightens in his groin as he watches Eggsy surrender himself over to such sheer, raw desire and he can't help imagining for just a second that it's _himself_ Eggsy's surrendering to.

Aghast and utterly helplessly, he watches as the young man's lips trace down his partner's neck, finding a spot just below his ear to attach his mouth to, and Harry releases a low, furious growl as Eggsy's partner eagerly returns the favor a second later. And then, just when his blood hits a rolling boil and he's sure he's either going to have a stroke or snap and commit a senseless act of wild violence against the man, Eggsy's eyes flit up to his, meeting his gaze with utterly unsurprised aplomb and a tiny, vengeful smirk.

_Well, fuck._

_'See what I mean, Harry?'_ Chester King's cruel, amused voice whispers in his ear, _'You really are slipping.'_

Eggsy's expression is ruthlessly unapologetic as he holds Harry's gaze long enough to ensure it remains put, and then, he winks at him.

It's a viciously spiteful, little thing and Harry freezes, going cold with dread as he watches Eggsy pull his partner down into a heated kiss.

It's really quite the show he's putting on, passionate and eager with just a touch of desperation and then it hits him: this is _Harry's_ kiss—with all the intense emotion pouring out of it, this could only be meant for _him._

The blow hits Harry like a punch to the chest and he gasps, fingers curling into points that winds up digging sharply into Garrett's hips.

“ _Harry-_ ” Garrett huffs, “Retract the claws?”

Harry sucks in a shaky breath and releases the other man, glancing at him apologetically.

“Quite the reaction, Harry, the least you could do is fill me in if I have to keep facing the opposite direction.”

“It would seem he's noticed us,” Harry replies in a strained, tight voice.

“Damage control or shall we give him something to _really_  notice?”

“I...” the words escape him as he suddenly sees the older man grabbing Eggsy roughly by the scruff of his neck and yanking him down to angle him properly for a kamikaze style invasion, torpedoing Eggsy's mouth with his tongue in a demanding, repulsively sloppy and dominating thing that Harry is loathe to call a kiss. Eggsy freezes rigidly beneath his partner, as if stunned by the unexpected aggressive onslaught, but neither does he push the man away—instead, he yields, submitting to the assault with something like detached resignation.

Harry can hazard a guess why.

He knew Eggsy had endured through rather hostile conditions under the iron fist of his brutal stepfather and it only stands to figure that being that this was his only real father figure for the majority of his upbringing, he'd very likely tried to look up to him, to even love him perhaps, but whatever minimal affection Dean had ever showed the boy in return had been superficial at best, and likely followed not long after by pain, terror and years of countless disappointments.

And right then and there it clicks. It's not that Eggsy _refused_ to recognize Harry's less than subtle overtures or even that he was too dense to (and the latter Harry had always been skeptical of considering what he knew of both the young man's rather impressive IQ and EQ)—

It's that he couldn't. Eggsy simply hadn't been equipped to.

“That's rather revolting,” Garrett remarks with a disapproving frown. Only belatedly does Harry realize, (and with some measure of gratitude) that the blonde, tired of pretending to dance with a statue has joined him in danceless solidarity in the middle of the crowded dance floor to stare at the disgraceful display. “I assume you do realize you could stop this shit show, but I'm guessing you're holding back to spare the boy his pride. The worst part is, he's likely suffering this all for the same reason, _and_  because he knows you're watching of course.”

Harry's fists are numb at his sides for how hard he's been clenching them.

“I'm coming to the realization that this situation is fairly nuanced and messy, but wounded pride can surely heal,” Garrett points out and just as Harry is beginning to feel persuaded by the argument, preparing himself to march over there and break it up, Eggsy does it himself.

Wiping a hand across his kiss bruised mouth the young man puts on a salacious grin and feigns the best damned act Harry's ever seen, and his partner looks clearly convinced that Eggsy must have enjoyed the experience.

The two start dancing and grinding against each other again, as if everything is perfectly fine, meaning he and Garrett have to follow suit so as not to be too terribly conspicuous to everyone else around them.

“Must admit, Harry, I don't typically stay for so many dances with the same man,” he grins. “Usually, if it's working out we skip out early, and if it doesn't, I just hook another. I also don't usually look to involve myself in other's drama, as I happen to endure enough of it in the day-to-day grind, but I must admit, although my night's quite deviated from what I'd expected from it, I'm not disappointed. In fact, I'd go as far as to say this has been quite memorably entertaining. One for the books.”

“Although it's not typically polite to admit so openly to benefiting at another's expense, I suppose you proved to be of rather invaluable assistance this evening,” Harry concedes. “Which in fact, does remind me. My company may have a position which I believe might prove of some interest to you.”

The blonde raises an amused eyebrow. “Are you propositioning me?” He asks, heavy on the double-entendre.

" _Professionally,_ ” Harry specifies.

“I can be _very_ professional,” Garrett grins. “But what makes you think I don't already have a very _interesting_ job?”

Harry examines him for a moment. “MI5 or MI6?”

“Either way, if I were, I couldn't say,” the blonde chirps back melodically.

“ _Clever,_ ” Harry remarks. “Well, if you're ever finding your 'very interesting' job losing its appeal, stop into Kingsman and tell the clerk at the front: _Oxfords not Brogues_ , and do tell him I'll be expecting you.” ”

Garrett's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, “Kingsman you say? The bespoke shop up on Savile Row? Why I don't know if I'm terribly effective with a needle and thread,” he laughs jokingly. “Do you always recruit your tailors out of secret service agencies?”

“A sharp needle and a deft hand are only as good as the sharpness of one's eye,” Harry replies with an ambiguous smile.

“I'll consider your offer,” Garrett grins. “You may or may not see me around.”

Harry chuckles, “Then I may or may not be looking forward to it.”

After a firm handshake, Garrett leans forward with a cocky, shit-eating grin and plants a kiss on his cheek. “Best of luck with your boy, love.”

Garrett nudges his way out after that, leaving Harry alone in the middle of the mob, only to find to his immense chagrin, that while he's been concluding business, Eggsy has inexplicably vanished.

Pulling out his mobile, he quickly pairs to Eggsy's mobile to track his position, relieved to find he's still in the club somewhere.

Pushing his way through the crowd, he scans the sea of faces to no avail. Frustrated, Harry grits his teeth and shoves his way through the wall of bodies back to the bar, finally spotting Eggsy on the other side, still with that blasted man. Elbowing his way over, he keeps his eyes locked on the two, watching Eggsy take yet another shot of something or another.

_So that's the bastard's game plan? Get him shit-faced and have his way with him?_

Just as he's making headway, they get up to leave. Harry can see him tugging Eggsy along by his wrist and the young man is stumbling clumsily after him, clearly intoxicated.

Finally he catches up to the two just as they're heading toward the club exit.

“Eggsy stop,” Harry demands. “Stop this instant.”

Eggsy finally turns around and Harry's eyes dip to the young man's waist where his companion's arm is wrapped possessively around him before swiftly sweeping back up to meet the man's eyes.

“Why're ya stalkin' me, Harry?”

Harry ignores the question glaring at Eggsy's companion with nearly bared teeth. “Kindly remove your hands and leave,” he orders stiffly, his tone low and dangerous.

“And just who the devil do you think you are, ordering me around?”

Eggsy scowls. “ _Harry_ -”

“I will repeat myself, one more time,” Harry replies evenly and bone cold. “Take your hands off of him and leave, or I will _not_ be held accountable for what happens next.”

Eggsy's companion gives him an appraising look, raising an eyebrow as he finally notices their coincidental resemblance and his expression smooths over into something more courteous—like the gentleman he'd apparently charmed Eggsy with before letting his true side slip.

“Now why don't we discuss this civilly. I don't know who you are, and I have nothing against you, but clearly my friend here knows you, and clearly he doesn't like you stalking him, so instead of causing a scene, why don't you _'kindly'_ piss off and go make trouble elsewhere?”

Harry directs his attention at Eggsy. “Is what this... _man,_ ” he begins, refusing to lower himself to referring to the prick in the manner he deserves, “-saying true? Have you consented to go home with him this evening?”

Eggsy shrugs cavalierly.

“There you have it,” the man sneers. “Now why don't you go bother someone else,” he suggests, attempting to guide Eggsy out the door with him, but Eggsy is glancing back at Harry with a small, harried look of distress.

Harry jogs up to the exit, placing a firm hand on the door while blocking their way. “I am a very patient man,” he informs Eggsy's companion coolly, “But I told you to get your hands off of him, and I did not hear him give you his verbal consent.”

“Harry, _leave off_ ,” Eggsy huffs.

The other man narrows his eyes at Harry, grinning triumphantly. “As the boy said, _leave off._ ”

“The _'boy'_ is _not_ going anywhere with you until he explicitly tells me that's what he wants,” Harry grits out.

Eggsy glares at him. “Oi, you got no right ta' act all high n' mighty like yer in charge a' me n what I do.”

Harry gives him a slightly unimpressed frown. “I'm afraid I must remind you, that regardless of what's transpired between us, I _am_ still your boss.”

“But ya can't boss me around outside a' work, ya git,” Eggsy points out, and _well,_ even with a blood alcohol level Harry doesn't want to see the numbers on, he's actually quite right.

“B'sides, 'm not a ' _boy',_ ” Eggsy harrumphs churlishly. Harry doesn't even bother reminding him that it was, in fact, his 'friend' who referred to him that way in the first place.

Eggsy's companion leers at him with a wide, toothy grin. “'Course you're not, _sweetheart,_ you're a _man through and through,_ felt that for myself,” he confirms, shooting a nasty look back at Harry, and Harry can suddenly picture at least a dozen ways he would happily like to smash this man into the ground like the insect he is.

“ _Eggsy,_ I am asking you,” Harry pleads, his voice softening on the edge of desperation. “ _Please_ take a moment to consider your choices here.”

“Yeah? N' What _are_ my 'choices'?”

“You can either decide to leave here with a stranger you've barely met, or you can allow me to take you home.”

Eggsy's eyes scrunch together for a second as he stares at Harry, as if trying to figure out something for himself, but after a few seconds, he's just as perplexed as before. “What're you askin', Harry?”

“I am asking you to give this... _man_ your regrets and allow me to take you home,” Harry repeats as patiently as possible.

“Hate to inform you, but that's not going to happen,” Eggsy's companion tells them both firmly.

Eggsy looks back and forth between them warily for a moment before returning a frown to his companion. “Er, look, sorry, mate, we had a good time, yeah? But I think m' boss is right. I don't think-”

“This is ridiculous, Eggsy, let's get out of here,” the man huffs, steamrolling right over his rejection. Eggsy's eyes search up to Harry's a little desperately as his companion's grip tightens around him.

“He's clearly given you a no for his final answer,” Harry points out levelly, “So now that this is confirmed, instead of embarrassing yourself further, I would recommend you leave peacefully.”

The man shakes his head defiantly, his face bright red with anger. “I refuse to believe it. You're evidently his boss and he clearly doesn't want to lose his job by disagreeing with you. You know what I call that? I call that _coercion,_ ” he argues, pulling Eggsy up beside him.

“Like I jus' got done sayin', sorry, guv, not gonna happen, so could yeh maybe just let go, ya think?” Eggsy asks a little more firmly this time trying to disentangle himself without starting a fight about it.

The man scowls down at him. “As we agreed, you're coming with me.”

"I ain't agree to nothin' like that."

Eggsy's companion puts his other hand over the young man's shoulder in ownership, "You can't renege on a promise."

"I only said I might," Eggsy defends, "Plus, doubt I can get it up anyway, had too much, yeah? Whiskey dick happens, guv."

"Doesn't matter to me whether you're hard or not, when I fuck you, you'll still like it."

Harry finally loses his cool. 

“I believe the young man told you to get your filthy hands off him,” he snarls, lunging forward and yanking the bastard off of Eggsy by the collar of his shirt. The man yelps in alarm, his eyes bulging a little as he's unceremoniously dragged backward.

A few bystanders step quickly out of the way, equally alarmed at the prospect of a possible fight.

Staggering back up, the man shoves past Harry, and makes to grab again for Eggsy's arm.

“ _Oi_ ,” Eggsy barks, shoving him forcefully back, “Mitts off the Armani, dick bag.”

“Problem, gentlemen?” a doorman asks, eyeing them guardedly.

“N-no problem-” Eggsy's former companion stutters, brushing his hands down his rumpled shirt.

“Think you had enough fun for the night, mate, why don't I help you flag down a cab,” the doorman tells him, escorting the petulant man outside.

Eggsy glances up at Harry flushing with embarrassment and a little left-over adrenaline from the encounter.

“ _Harry,_ ya shouldn'a come 'ere,” he snaps resentfully, swaying a little. “An' ya defina-def-” Eggsy scowls. “Ya shouldna' done that. I coulda' handled myself wiffout yeh getting in the way.”

Harry gives him an unconvinced frown. “Yes. Because you were _certainly_ handling things quite effectively yourself _by all appearances_.”

“I wouldna' acsha- actually gone through with it,” he mutters resentfully, “Gone home wif 'im I mean. Not that it woulda' been any a' yer business if I had.”

Eggsy doesn't sound very convinced of it himself and Harry frowns at him. 

"Evil mirror version of you, weren't he," Eggsy snorts with a small self-deprecating smirk.

"I hadn't noticed," Harry lies.

"Too bad he was such a cock hair, 'cause he was pretty fit." 

“Eggsy, how much have you had to drink?”

Eggsy staggers forward a bit and Harry catches him around the waist to steady him.

“Who the fuck cares?” he bites out irritably.

Harry shakes his head, exasperated. “Eggsy, _I_ care _._ ”

“Lemme' go, Harry, not goin' wif you either, jus' leave me the fuck alone,” Eggsy huffs, pushing out of Harry's arms. “You don' got _no right_ t' tell me what t' do, n' I don' need yer pity,” he tells him, stabbing his finger in the air at him.

Harry lets out a long sigh and grabs the ridiculous finger along with the rest of his hand and places it down at the young man's side where it belongs. “Eggsy, I won't make you do anything you don't want to do, but I will warn you, I do have other methods at my disposal that might compel you to see reason.”

Eggsy narrows his eyes at him skeptically. “ _Nah_ , empty threat, guv.”

“If you won't permit me to take you home, my dear, I am quite prepared to call your mother,” Harry smirks.

Eggsy's jaw drops in horror and narrows his eyes. “ _You wouldn't dare._ ”

“Try me,” Harry replies evenly. “If you insist on acting like a child, I'll treat you as one.”

Eggsy' scowl is quite emphatic. “ _I hate you,_ ” he grumbles.

Harry huffs a small sigh. “You've made that _abundantly_ clear,” he replies, leading Eggsy out of the club with a guiding hand prompting him forward on the small of his back.

The young man stumbles a little, cursing under his breath on their way toward the street and Harry slips his arm around him again to assist with his balance.

“Why you always gotta be rushin' in to save the day? Like yer always so _fuckin' perfect_ n' I'm jus' a fuck up, why even fuckin' bother wif me?” he demands, pulling away from him again and kicking a crumpled can across the pavement. They both watch it clink away over the concrete and tumble over the kerb into the street.

“ _I don' get what you wan' from me, Harry_ ,” Eggsy admits dejectedly staring at the can in the road as it gets flattened by a passing car as if he could easily sympathize with the thing.

“Eggsy, more than anything else, I want _you_ to be happy,” Harry replies honestly.

Eggsy shakes his head, grinning unhappily. “Funny innit? You wan' me t' be _happy_ , but you can' jus' leave it be, can' jus' leave it well 'nuff alone, can ya?”

Harry frowns. “No, I can't, but this is really a conversation best kept for home. Or, for when you're less inebriated,” he edifies.

“Not _that 'nebriated,_ ” Eggsy grumbles morosely, “So Merlin know yer out chasin' affer me t'night?”

“Merlin happened to personally recommend I do so,” Harry replies blandly.

“Yer both out t' ruin my life, aren't ya? Personal mission or sumfin'?”

Harry tries very hard not to look as exasperated as he feels. “We both care about you a good deal, Eggsy, and your welfare is important to us.”

Eggsy snorts. “So he sent ya after me, yeah? Did he also tell ya it were okay by 'im t' get all over some other bloke while you was at it?”

“I sincerely doubt he'd _personally_ mind,” Harry sighs tiredly.

Eggsy gives him a weird look. “What, ya gonna tell me the two a' ya got the same swinger gig goin' on like Percy?”

“ _Really,_ Eggsy,” Harry scoffs a touch scornfully, finally catching the attention of a cab.

“Yeah, but 'm jus' sayin', if thas' the way of it wif you two n' ya ever was lookin' fer... _fuckit'_. You know what I mean, ya 'ave m' number, Harry. In more ways than one.”

Harry stares at him a little appalled. “Are you attempting to proposition the two of us?”

Eggsy shrugs nonchalantly, trying for a joking, flirty grin, but it fails to serve the intended effect and results appearing a very obviously strained around the edges. “I'll take what I can get, mate,” Eggsy admits and Harry frowns. This is not the way he wanted to approach this conversation.

“Eggsy, first of all, I am strictly a monogamist. Truly, I'm a very selfish person and I don't share well,” he attempts to explain, “And as for Merlin, I believe he is as well, although, I admit I'm unclear on the specifics, but if there's some reason you really must know, I'm sure Tristan could tell you,” Harry suggests, opening the cab door for the young man and assisting him inside.

Eggsy plops in his seat a little clumsily, fumbling to grab his mobile out of back pocket a second later with a very disgruntled grimace.

“Fuckin' piece a' shite gone bit me in the arse,” he curses as Harry climbs in the other side of the cab to take his seat.

“Well maybe you shoud've taken it out of your pocket before sitting down.”

Eggsy glares at him. “Oi, you the one tha' shoved me in, ya twat.”

Harry closes the door and rubs his eyes. “Stanhope Mews South, if you will,” he instructs the driver, “And I apologize in advance for any unbecoming language my companion will inevitably spew.”

“Nothin' I ain't heard before, mind, but jus' as long as yer mate here ain't gonna spew nothin' else, yeah? He ain't sick is he? 'Cause that smell takes bloody _ages_ t' get outta the upholstery.”

“Oi, 'm back 'ere, too, mate,” Eggsy reminds the driver with an affronted frown.

“Not intendin' any offense, mate, nothin' personal, jus' lookin' after me ol' gal 'ere,” the driver defends, patting his dashboard affectionately.

“So Harry, ya said you was takin' me home, yeah? But we goin' t' yours?” Eggsy asks glancing over at him curiously.

Harry hides his wince. _Bugger._ “Indeed,” he replies coolly. “I intend to make sure you make it through to the morning in one piece.”

“ _Aw,_ Harry,” Eggsy drawls. “Yer too bloody good t' me. Always bloody fuckin' martyr Harry, comin' t' pull me outta the muck.”

Harry glances at the young man. “Eggsy, you're not an obligation, and I'd appreciate it if you would desist with that insulting misconception.”

“Then what am I, eh?”

“So very much more than that, my dear,” Harry corrects him softly.

Eggsy raises his eyes, glancing back up at him with an utterly shattered, exhausted expression. “ _Please,_ Harry, I've asked you b'fore. Don' fuckin say shit like that t' me. Fucks with my head, mate.”

“We're arrived, gents,” the driver announces pulling through the gate up to the door.

“Oi, _Harry,_ I forgot about poor JB,” Eggsy exclaims as Harry helps him find his footing through the front door with a hand on his elbow to stabilize him. “Though I 'spose I put 'm out before I left n' gave 'im plenty and food n' water n' stuff, 'prolly will 'ave an accident though,” he reasons. “Fuck, Harry, 'm an awful dog dad, ain't I?”

“I think JB can survive one night alone, Eggsy,” Harry reassures him.

“Still feel like a piece a shit fer forgettin' 'bout him, though,” Eggsy mutters. “So, yer gonna offer me a drink, yeah?”

Harry gives him his best withering look. “I truly do hope you're joking.”

Eggsy shrugs, grinning. "No harm tryin',” he replies stepping out of his shoes like it's his house, before making his wobbly way past Harry into Harry's living room and collapsing heavily down on the couch. “Fuckin' _love_  this couch, mate, so fuckin' comfy, n' like, stylish yeah? Totally a _you_ couch. Tried t' get one like it, but the cushions are all wrong. You should let me take yers home wif me. Swear I'd treat 'er right.”

“Or you could just enjoy it when you come over,” Harry suggests. “Think of it as an incentive, you can enjoy the couch and in return I get to enjoy the pleasure of your company.”

“You tryin' to bribe me in t' bein' mates again?” Eggsy asks suspiciously. “'Cause we ain't.”

“So we've reverted back to this again?”

Eggsy glowers down at the throw pillow he's tugged into his lap to hug. “I don' know. Jus' 'cause we're talkin' right now don' mean nothin'. You stalked me to a club, Harry, n' then ya pretty much tricked me in t' comin' here fer the night.”

And that is _exactly_ why Harry goes to fix _himself_ a drink.

He brings Eggsy back water.

“Aw, lame. You go pour yerself scotch and ya don' even offer me any?”

Harry fights the urge to drag a hand over his face. “I _do_ believe we already went over that.”

“Yer no fun, Harry.”

“Am I to conjecture that this is the reason you've decided to sever our friendship?” Harry asks with a raised eyebrow.

Eggsy dramatically collapses all the way across the couch, still hugging the pillow with one arm while slinging the other over his eyes and groans. “Alrigh' I know 'm not bein' fair 'bout all this, but ya gotta cut me a break. I jus' gotta have some time t' come t' terms wif the whole bloody Merlin thing. Came outta left field.”

Harry's had a very long, emotional day, and frankly, he needs the pillow more than Eggsy, which is why he steals it initially, yanking it quickly out of the young man's half-hug.

“Oi! I was bloody usin' tha', Harry!” He protests, scowling indignantly up at him.

“Budge over and let me sit and I _may_ consider giving it back to you,” Harry orders, holding the pillow hostage until Eggsy complies. And that's when he get's an  _inspired_ idea. 

Harry takes a seat in the vacated spot, still a little warmed from Eggsy's back. “Since you don't think I'm any fun, I suggest we play a game.”

Eggsy stares at him blankly and Harry holds up the pillow. “This is going to be the 'talking pillow'-”

“Pillows don't talk,” Eggsy smirks.

Harry frowns at him disapprovingly. “As I was saying before you so rudely interrupted, this is the talking pillow from here until the end of this conversation. Because you're less than sober, I don't expect you'll follow the rules-”

“Oi, I got it, thas' the 'talking pillow'.”

Harry sighs. “Yes, very good. The rules are as follows: when I am holding the pillow, I get to speak without interruption, and when I am done, you get the pillow so you may respond and I will wait until you are finished. There will be no outbursts and no running out the door leaving me to panic about whether you've made it home alright or are lying dead in a gutter somewhere, is that understood?”

Harry passes him the pillow. “Yeah, _yeah,_ got it already,” Eggsy snorts, tossing the pillow back across the couch to Harry again.

“First of all,” Harry prefaces, “I intended to correct several mistaken assumptions you made several days ago, but you wouldn't let me. Instead, you inexplicably ran out of my house and refused to show up for your assigned debriefing using the fake excuse of being ill, which, if I was inclined to I could give you a demerit for. You've given me no chance to explain anything and you've actively avoided me since, acting very childishly too, I might add, so yes, Eggsy, I think I was justified in seeking you out to remedy this issue-”

“Ya fuckin' kidnapped me, that's gotta be a whopping demerit right there, you should demerit yerself,” Eggsy huffs."So far I don't like this game, all yer doin' is hollerin' at me."

Harry scowls. “Are you holding the pillow, Eggsy? Because I see the pillow on my lap, not yours.”

Eggsy groans. “ _Oh my God, Harry, yer so fuckin' bossy.”_

“Second of all, I _am_ your boss, which means, regardless of our personal relationship, you are to treat me with due respect, and from now on, unless there is truly a dire emergency, I expect you to show up to attend every meeting. If you have a problem with me, you are to speak to me about it directly. Are we clear?”

Eggsy grabs the pillow resentfully. “Yeah, we're clear,” he mutters, passing the pillow back to Harry.

“Thirdly, Merlin and I are _not intimate,_ Eggsy. We are not a couple and we have no intention of ever being. If you recall, I mentioned to you earlier that if you had any question regarding Merlin and _his_ relationship, I advised you to speak with him or Tristan on the matter since they're the one's in the relationship. With each other. No one else, as far I'm aware,” Harry tells him passing back the pillow.

Eggsy's reaction to this news is calmer than he'd expected. “You're bloody takin' the piss, mate,” he finally responds, shaking his head in disbelief. “But everyone said-”

Harry shuts him down immediately, raising his hand and waves his fingers calling back the pillow.

Eggsy huffs and passes it back to him.

“ _Rumours,_ Eggsy, are not always true. In this case, in the interest of full disclosure, yes. Merlin and I once considered a relationship. That was sorted out and we are only friends. Which brings me to my fourth point. You really must try to use a little more impulse control and resist giving into the temptation to pay heed to or partake in interoffice gossip. It's poor conduct, it's against the rules, and it's unbecoming of a gentleman.”

Eggsy narrows his eyes and holds out his hand for the pillow.

“ _Hypocrite,_ ” is all he says before passing back the pillow.

Harry smirks. “That's fair. It's something we all need to work on,” he concedes. “To the fifth point-”

“ _Bloody lotta' points,_ mate, someones gonna accidentally poke their eye out if ya don't be careful, n' you almost lost one, so you should be extra-”

Harry groans and clobbers Eggsy over the head with the pillow.

“Oi! I thought that was a 'talking pillow' not a 'whacking pillow',” Eggsy sniffs, pouting. “An' just so we're clear, I only talked just now 'cause the pillow touched my head, I think that counts as a turn.”

“New rule: every time you talk out of turn, this will now become the 'whacking pillow', understood?”

Eggsy sulks, unable to respond because he doesn't have the pillow and Harry's evidently got a good arm for pillow whacking.

“To my fifth point, I realize you've had a lot to drink which is why I was going to delay this conversation to the next morning, but as you're sobering up to some degree-”

Eggsy nods proudly, “Fast metabolism-”

He gets whacked with the pillow.

Harry sighs. “You're not very good at this game-”

“You just like clobbering me with the talking pillow, admit it.”

“Alright, I'll let this last one slide, but in my defense, you've put me through a lot of grief the last few days, Eggsy, it's cathartic.”

Eggsy holds out his hand for the pillow. “Can I whack you with the pillow? You've put me through a lot of grief, too.”

Harry holds up his hands and breaks his own rule. “Don't say I never did anything nice for you, Eg-.”

Eggsy puts his arm into it, Harry has to admit, a little stunned by the force of it.

“Oops, sorry, that was kinda hard wasn't it,” Eggsy apologizes without sounding the least bit apologetic. Still, he passes Harry back the pillow.

“Where even was I?” Harry asks, partially baiting Eggsy to speak out of turn again so he can exact some revenge, and partially because he's honestly gotten a little distracted by the joy of playing like this with the young man again.

Eggsy, however, does not take the bait this time, eyeing Harry with a proud smirk.

“Ah, I know where I left off. The fifth point. Eggsy, tonight was probably the worst night I've had in a very long time, you cannot, you _must not,_ take your anger or hurt out in a way that will endanger you. As your boss, I am in control of determining whether you are fit for the field, and to be fit for the field, I must be able to _trust_ that you're physically, mentally and emotionally competent, stable and well enough so as not to compromise the mission, wrack up unnecessary fatalities, or hurt yourself or your colleagues. Imagine the position you put me in when I have to be the one responsible for the reputation of Kingsman, for your life and that of so many others. Imagine how I would feel putting you out in the field knowing full well there are reasons I shouldn't and then God forbid something were to happen to you? I don't think I could live with myself, and I must say, that after tonight, I have many, very serious reservations about reassigning you right away. What you did tonight was reckless, Eggsy. I don't say all of this as Arthur either, I say it as your friend, as someone who cares about you deeply.”

Harry pauses to gauge Eggsy's quietly remorseful expression. “You were upset about a situation you believed to be out of your control, and yet you still took it out on yourself— _and me._ Seeing you throw yourself all over than dreadful creature—and the way he treated you and watching him hurt you,” Harry scowls at the memory. “You have to understand, every time you've hurt, I've hurt right alongside you and whenever you pay so little mind to your own life, to your own safety—every time you disregard how important your life is; every time you disregard how important your life is to _me_ , Eggsy, it terrifies me, and every single time you've avoided me, every time you've rejected me, run from me, ignored me—every time you've stripped down our friendship or taken it away completely— _every time_ it's been your decision, I never get consulted, I never get input, I just have to suffer the consequences of whatever you impose upon both of us. If you wanted to make me suffer, my dear boy, you've successfully achieved your goal.”

He slides the pillow back across the couch, and Eggsy hugs it to his chest again but he doesn't speak right away.

“Eggsy-”

Eggsy grins a feeble grin and whacks him half-heartedly.

“Bad Harry, it's my turn,” he chastises, huffing a small, choked laugh. “I don't know what to tell you, Harry, you already know everything anyway. I mean, if you didn't get it watchin' me when I thought you were dead-” he sucks in a breath and exhales it slowly. “Right. So, if you didn't figure it out back then, _though I think ya did_ , I told you straight out the other night. I've been pretty clear about everything, Harry, and I don't know. I don't know what you want from me. You treat me better than anyone else ever has but that doesn't even give you the credit you deserve, 'cause I don't think _anyone_ treats anyone as well as you've treated me, and I don't know, the things you do for me, the things ya do _to me,_ Harry. You don't even have to do all that stuff, you just gotta be you, I've been gone for you since the start, you know? Before _everything._ And then you just kept doin' all these things and actin' like I was somethin' special, like I was important, and _important to you_ which is all I've ever wanted to be.”

Eggsy takes a gulp of his water and clears his throat, but it hardly does anything to keep out the crack in his voice. “So, considering all that, I just guess I was feelin' pretty led on, and even though I get you're not with Merlin, I guess it doesn't matter right? 'Cause you still don' wanna be with _me._ Not like I wanna be with you, Harry. I don' want friendship. I mean if it's all you can give me, you _know_ I'll take what I can get, but I swear it won' ever be enough, 'cause I want you so bad, Harry, I fuckin' _adore you._ An' tha's why ya gotta stop bein' so fuckin' nice, 'cause it's not helping. Every time you say the things you say to me, it fuckin hurts, because every single time, for a split second, I believe ya really feel the same way for me, but then I gotta turn around and remind myself ya don't, and like I said before, ya can't keep doin' that. You said you want me to be happy, Harry, but I can't be if you won't let me get over you.”

Harry holds out his hand for the pillow.

“ _My dear boy,_ I won't ever stop telling you exactly what you mean to me, because I mean all of those words from the bottom of my heart.”

Eggsy leans over to touch the pillow, his eyes intense and glistening with emotion. “Don' be pullin' any more of that Mr. Darcy shite with me, Harry,” he breathes, “Jus' tell me straight. _From you,_ Harry, or I swear I'll go crazy.”

Harry smiles at Eggsy with everything he's ever felt for this amazing, clever, talented, kind, beautiful young man, letting him see everything in his expression: all his longing, all his devotion and admiration and desperate attraction and when he reaches for Eggsy's hand to interlock their fingers, Eggsy doesn't pull away.

“Eggsy, my darling, I utterly adore youand desire you,” Harry confesses, “And you _must_ know, that I love you beyond _all_ reason.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AGAIN: THIS IS NOT OVER! THIS IS NOT THE FINAL CHAPTER!


	16. Chapter 16

Eggsy blinks, gaping back at his companion in disbelief, squeezing Harry's hand a little painfully. “Hold up,” he demands, disregarding the pillow rule entirely. “You sayin' what I think you're sayin'?”

Harry's firm, serious expression leaves little room for debate.

“Why didn' ya say nothin' straight from the start then?” Eggsy asks, his mouth furling into a frown.

“I thought it poorly advised,” Harry replies a little helplessly.

Eggsy frowns. “Ya owe me more of an explanation than that, mate.”

“Very well,” Harry cedes, carefully separating his fingers and retrieving his hand from the young man's grip. “I'll elaborate. The nature of my affection for you has been— _is—_ highly inappropriate. First as your sponsor, and even now as your mentor and boss, we are on less than entirely equal footing and from the very start, bearing this in mind, I couldn't bring myself to pursue something I expected would likely result in only disappointment and heartache for both of us.”

“What would even make you think that?” 

Harry sighs. “I had theorized that your affection for me, considering the circumstances, might've been born of little more than simple, _innocently_ intended admiration—perhaps at the _very most,_ some sort of grievously misplaced infatuation which, while _admittedly_ flattering, I'd believed could not possibly have paralleled the depth of my own regard and would surely prove no more than a passing fancy. To pretend otherwise, let alone to act on it, would've been certain to result in doing a us both a grave disservice.”

Eggsy screws his eyes up at him skeptically. “Bit defeatist, Harry, an' you hardly got reason t' be. You got any idea how stupidly perfect you are, mate? _Fuck._ ”

Harry responds with a small, modest smile. “That's very kind of you to say, Eggsy.”

“Truth though,” Eggsy shrugs.

“Regardless, while I might have been able to eventually scrape back together the tattered remains of my heart and my dignity, I could not fathom suffering either your pity or discomfort. The mere prospect was intolerable to me.”

Harry stares down at his drink in his hand, dragging the pad of his thumb in idle stripes through the sweaty fog of condensation with a contemplative frown. Steeling himself with a long sip of liquid courage, he finally peers back up the young man to find Eggsy regarding him with a quietly thoughtful expression.

“Then ya got an eyeful to prove otherwise, didn't ya?”

Harry grimaces. “I never spied on you for prurient sport,” he tries to defend before cringing to a pause. “At least, not initially. However, I _do_ owe you the truth. I regret the temptation proved too much for me and on more than one occasion, I watched you full well knowing the only purpose served was self-serving.”

“Can't say if I were in the same spot I woulda' done better,” Eggsy shrugs.

“Still,” Harry sighs. “It was gross misconduct—a tremendous, _indefensible_ violation.”

“But at least it pushed home the point, yeah?”

Harry shakes his head. “Grief distorts, Eggsy and I couldn't take comfort hoping your reaction was a genuine reflection of how you genuinely felt. Thus, this put me in quite the catch-22, because even if your feelings had very little merit beyond the warped inspiration of your grief, you still genuinely believed them real and therefore suffered for it,” he explains. “This is why I had to tell you the truth. I earnestly believed knowing how I felt would help you process a better clarity of everything for yourself. At the same time, it would have been irresponsible for me to neglect pointing out my objective reservations, hence the reason for sending you the sonnet.”

Eggsy's face scrunches with confusion and Harry takes pity on him. Pushing himself out of his seat, he goes to his bookshelf to retrieve his copy of Shakespeare's collection of sonnets, flipping through the pages until he finds the 57th. He passes the book, thumb earmarking the page back to the young man and returns to his seat.

 _'Being your slave what should I do but tend_  
 _Upon the hours, and times of your desire?_  
 _I have no precious time at all to spend;_  
 _Nor services to do, till you require._  
 _Nor dare I chide the world without end hour,_  
 _Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,_  
 _Nor think the bitterness of absence sour,_  
 _When you have bid your servant once adieu;_  
 _Nor dare I question with my jealous thought_  
 _Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,_  
 _But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought_  
 _Save, where you are, how happy you make those._  
    _So true a fool is love, that in your will,_  
    _Though you do anything, he thinks no ill.'_

“You see, the older gentleman expresses his deep concern over the potential of his lust to destroy his friendship with the younger fellow,” Harry explains. “He sits by, watching the clock, counting the seconds until his young man returns to him again; bitterly jealous, bitterly knowing the folly of this and knowing love has made him a fool.”

Harry smiles grimly at Eggsy's dawning look of comprehension. “I believe it rather succinctly paints the picture. My feelings for you are inconvenient, Eggsy. I knew your father. Lee was my friend and this alone serves as a rather acute reminder of the fact that I'm not a young man, Eggsy, and when you reach your prime, I'll have already slipped decades into the decline of my own. It would be inconceivably selfish of me to gloss over the salient reality of this. You deserve so much more, my boy. You deserve to be happy-”

Eggsy scowls. “Don't you dare tell me what will and won't make me happy, Harry,” he interjects passionately, jumping to his feet. “You don't have the right to decide that for me. More off, you don't get to deny yourself that right either.”

Harry's eyes roll slowly up, hesitating just before meeting the younger man's eyes. “You're an adult, Eggsy. You can make your own decisions, but I don't want your decisions to be influenced by the moment. I only endeavour to impress upon you reason and remind you of your options,” he defends calmly. “But I'm only a man, and I've only so much strength and if this is what you want, I can only advise you to proceed with caution. I am a selfish man, my dear, and what's mine is mine to keep. Do you understand?”

Eggsy heeds his warning with a grain of salt. “Hear ya loud n' clear, Harry,” he smirks, sliding in beside him on the couch. Harry sucks in a small breath at the sudden warmth of the young man's body pressed alongside him, his eyes flitting down to Eggsy's hand on his knee. “I understand what your sayin' an' I don't got any argument with it.”

Just to bring home his point, Eggsy's hand slides confidently up from his knee, pausing midway. The heat of his palm through the thin layer of Harry's trousers radiates upward, tightening in his groin. “I want you, Harry. I want this,” he tells him pointedly, his thumb stroking meaningful circles on the inside of his thigh. “I want everythin' you're offerin'. All of it.” Harry feels his cock stir, jumping a little with hopeful arousal as Eggsy's hand forges onward in its quest.

Clamping a fist around the young man's wrist to halt his progress, Harry clears his throat.

“ _Eggsy_ ,” he warns, “Stop. While you're tremendously difficult for me resist, I'm afraid I must.”

Eggsy pouts. “ _Fuckin'-A,_ Harry-”

“ _Unfortunately-_ ” Harry swallows, his voice thick with frustration, “I cannot consent to anything further until you're fully sober enough to consent yourself. Anything short of that is unacceptable.”

Eggsy groans. “ _Always a fuckin' perfect gentleman,_ ” he complains, heaving an equally frustrated sigh as Harry pushes himself out of his seat.

“I don't have the guest room made up, so you may sleep in my bed with the understanding that all we will participate in is sleep. Try for anything else and I'll be forced to sleep on the couch, which I'd really prefer not to, as I've had a very _long_ day. Is that clear?”

Eggsy gives him an annoyed, disappointed frown, accepting his help up. “Whatever you say, Harry,” he sighs, following him up the stairs. “Mind if I hop in for a shower first? Pretty rank with club crud an' I still kinda reek from that wank stain's shite cologne, ya know?”

Harry suppresses the urge to shudder at the reminder and passes him a robe and a pair of fresh pyjamas. “There should be a clean towel on the rack,” he informs him courteously, “And an extra toothbrush in the second drawer down. Which you are all welcome to once I've finished washing up myself.”

After Harry is done taking care of his own business he relinquishes the bathroom to Eggsy. As he strips off the comforter from the bed, he tries desperately to distract himself from fact that the young man will not only be joining him here shortly, but that he's currently naked in Harry's shower only a room away.

He's just folded back the sheets and settled in when the bathroom door opens.

Harry glances up from the book he'd been trying and failing to pay attention to and sees the steam billowing out from behind Eggsy as he stalls in the entryway, wrapped modestly in Harry's robe. Peering at the young man from over the reading glasses perched on his nose, he frowns. “Is everything alright, my dear?”

A slight, alluring little blush stains the tops of the young man's cheeks a lovely pink. “Yeah. Just a bit surreal n' all. Seein' you in bed like that, waitin' for me.”

Harry smiles back at him kindly and pats the covers beside him. Eggsy sucks in a breath and strolls into the room and Harry can't help following his progress as he removes his robe, folding it politely over the top of the chair by the dresser. He sucks in a breath as he sees Eggsy has decided to forgo the top to the set of sleepwear he'd been given, his gaze gliding down the muscular length of his back to admire the pert, sculpted form of his arse. Harry can't quite tear away his eyes as Eggsy turns back around to pad barefoot over to bed, his mouth going a bit dry as he discreetly admires the the young man's torso bared all the way down to the waist band of his low slung pyjama bottoms. They seem to hang just below the jut of his hips by sheer force of will alone, clinging appealingly over the bulge of his groin and Harry suppresses the urge to groan before quickly retraining his expression into something unpresuming and neutral as Eggsy slips in between the sheets shyly, careful not to accidentally let any part of him brush against him.

“Thanks, Harry,” he whispers quietly. “I mean, for like, everything, ya know?”

Harry's smile is soft as he gazes back at him. “I know, my dear, and you're very welcome,” he replies, reaching forward to caress Eggsy's cheek. Eggsy leans into the touch with almost tragic, touch-starved desperation and Harry cups his chin, leaning forward to press to his lips the gentlest, most chaste of kisses. Eggsy sucks in a small, surprised gasp as their lips connect. “Goodnight, my dear,” he smiles as the young man blinks myopically back at him, his face a splotchy mess of crimson.

“ _Harry,_ ” Eggsy whines, “You _can't_ just kiss a bloke like that an' expect 'im to turn right over n' go to sleep no problem.”

Harry soothes a comforting hand down the young man's arm. “We'll discuss everything again in the morning,” Harry promises.

“ _Fine, ya bloody tease,_ ” Eggsy grumps under his breath, shoving down beneath the sheets as Harry removes his glasses, setting them aside on the nightstand before turning off the lamp and settling down himself.

Harry tries to calm his racing heart as his eyes travel over the silhouetted form of the young man beside him; close enough to touch if he would let himself and close enough to breathe in.

Sure enough, very little time passes before he hears Eggsy's breath slow into a light snore and Harry closes his eyes, allowing himself to finally surrender to the call of his bone-aching exhaustion.

\--

Sunlight filters in through the sheer curtains and Eggsy grumbles irritably awake, squinting unhappily and burrowing his head back down into the comfortable nook between his pillow and a broad, warm chest.

And then a moment later it hits him.

Eggsy blinks back open his eyes in confusion; freezing still as a spike of panic jolts through him. He's tucked under someone's chin and there's an arm draped heavily over his waist clutching him close and only by a combination of instinct and good training does he keep from scrambling backward. Quickly diving through his groggy memory banks, Eggsy manages to assemble the facts, finally registering where he is and who he's with. He gusts out a sigh of relief and glances up at Harry, still soundly asleep.

Sleep, he sees, softens Harry's features; smoothing the lines over his eyes and the creases around his mouth, stripping years from his face and Eggsy's heart squeezes in his chest, aching with warmth for the man. He hides his happy grin in Harry's chest reveling in his closeness, pleased as pudding to learn the man's a cuddler as he unconsciously hugs him closer.

And then, suddenly hyper aware of their intimate position, Eggsy feels a tingle of heat swell downward, sucking in a breath as he notices his morning-wood insistently nudging the outside of Harry's thigh. Once he makes the discovery, he's unable to help from reflexively bucking forward against the other man. A shock of pleasure bursts through him and he hears himself helplessly utter aloud a tiny moan. Terrified, Eggsy's eyes flit up to Harry and he holds his breath as he carefully examines the other man's face to make sure he's hasn't accidentally woken him up.

Thankfully, he sleeps on, unaware of Eggsy's deeds and feeling a little guilty, he edges back his hips. Slipping a hand down beneath the covers, he adjusts himself, trapping his erection beneath the waistband of his pyjamas securely against his stomach. And then, just as he sees Harry stir, he yanks his hand back out of his pants and prepares what he hopes passes for an innocent smile.

Harry blinks back at him at first, just as confused for a moment as Eggsy had been and he can practically see the cogs spinning in the man's head as he takes into account the situation he finds himself in. Finally, coming to some sort of relieved conclusion, his expression relaxes and his honey-brown eyes search up to Eggsy's, glowing with soft, open adoration and a sleep-drunk smile.

“Good morning, Eggsy,” he greets fondly, his voice a low purr that sets free a hundred butterflies in Eggsy's stomach.

“Hiya, Harry,” he grins back, feeling a bit giddy about the fact that Harry has neither removed his arm from around his waist nor pulled back to put room between them in some kind of effort to be polite.

“No hangover then?”

“Nah, wakin' up next t' you is a pretty good cure for that.”

Harry's eyes sparkle warmly back at him as he reaches up to comb his fingers through Eggsy's hair and Eggsy shudders, feeling a little breathless as Harry's fingernail's scrape lightly against his scalp.

“Did you sleep well?”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Eggsy breathes, “You?”

“Like a rock,” Harry admits. Eggsy stifles the urge to complain when his companion drops his hand back down, but finds he's satisfied that the man at least returns it to rest over his hip.

“Do you remember last night?” Harry asks him with guarded, curious eyes.

“Not a thing, mate, but I take it we had wild, passionate gay sex all over the place, yeah?” Eggsy grins, waggling his eyebrows.

Harry's breath catches and he freezes for just a short second before huffing out a long, exasperated sigh. “ _Eggsy-_ ”

“Bet it were real good, too,” Eggsy muses, teasingly. “But since I can't remember nothin' maybe you'd be good enough to remind me, eh?”

Harry narrows his eyes at him with a small, reluctantly amused smile. “You'll drive me to an early grave, my dear,” he chuckles affectionately.

Eggsy returns his smile and sweeps a reassuring hand down Harry's arm, feeling a little bold for initiating contact himself for a change. “Yeah, Harry, of course I remember,” he replies softly. “Ya told me you loved me, ya really think I was gonna forget that?”

“I'd rather hoped not,” Harry sighs, interlocking their fingers.

“So you meant it then?” Eggsy asks with a shy smile, cautiously hopeful.

“Every word,” the other man confirms, raising Eggsy's hand to his lips to press a kiss between his knuckles. Eggsy swoons a little, grateful he's already laying down for how boneless the gesture renders him.

“ _Bloody romantic_ ,” he mutters, huffing a small laugh.

“So may I assume you haven't reconsidered?” Harry asks, brushing another light kiss on the inside of his wrist, not playing fair. 

Eggsy gazes back at him, feeling a bit light-headed and like his heart is going to flutter right out of his chest. “Not for the world _,_ ” he breathes. “ _Christ, Harry._ How thick can ya be, mate? _I love you_ an' I wanna spend the rest of my fuckin' life with you if you'll let me.”

The heat in Harry's gaze melts him.

“Let me make you breakfast,” –is not quite what Eggsy had expected in response to his declaration, but the proposition does inspire a rumble of hunger from his belly.

"Breakfast?" Eggsy asks, a little bewildered by the left-turn ad hoc. 

“First I think we ought to pick up JB,” Harry explains, “And then, my darling, when we return home, I intend to feed you a proper breakfast and fuck you properly into this mattress until you can no longer get out of it.”

This sufficiently shuts off all higher-brain function sending Eggsy's blood pooling straight down to his cock, and he doesn't quite think he's ever been so bloody hard in his life.

“Do you find that acceptable, my dear?”

Eggsy stares back in a daze at Harry's mischievous smirk. “You're fuckin' unbelievable, Harry. _Jesus Christ._ ”

Harry makes good on his promise and after they return from picking up his poor neglected pup, he puts down some bowls with kibble and water on the floor and proceeds to make Eggsy a full English. It's nothing short than out of this world and as he closes his eyes in bliss around his forkful of eggs, he can't help but think, if this is what Harry calls a 'proper breakfast' then he can't fuckin' _wait_ to find out what a 'proper fucking' entails.

“Are the eggs alright, Eggsy?” Harry asks politely after pulling off his apron to join him.

“ _Perfect,_ ” Eggsy reports, grinning across at his companion.

Harry smiles back at him happily before digging in. When they're both quite satisfied and their plates are sufficiently cleaned off, anticipation swirls excitedly in Eggsy's chest, only to have the wind taken out of his sails not a minute later when Harry receives an unexpected call.

“Merlin? Is everything— _oh,_ I see.”

Eggsy doesn't hear the other end of the conversation but he doesn't like the look of the way Harry's expression suspiciously closes off to him.

“Well, that is rather alarming. Is there anything to be done?”

Eggsy tries to catch Harry's eyes to convey his worry and Harry's eyes dart up to him for a fleeting second with a reassuring smile.

“Merlin, may I put you on speaker? Eggsy's quite beside himself with concern-” Harry reports. “Indeed. We just finished with breakfast. Very well then. Here you go.”

“Galahad, I could use your help,” Merlin huffs out, an edge of strained exhaustion heavy in his tone, “ _Evidently_  word travels quickly, and as you know, has an unfortunate tendency to wrestle away from the truth. It appears Ale- _Tristan_ had overheard Bedivere and Kay on their way out last night and impossibly, has got it into his thick skull that I'm secretly carrying on some torrid affair with Harry behind his back, and so we can put an end to this _bloody fucking ridiculous_ gossip once and for all-”

“ _For God's sake, let me talk-”_ Eggsy overhears Tristan demanding in the background.

“ _Fine,_ ” Merlin spits out, “Harry, Eggsy— _Tristan._ ”

“Good morning, Arthur, Galahad,” Tristan greets. “I realize this is highly irregular, however, Merlin informs me that the two of you are involved and I must insist you tell if this is, in fact, the case”

Eggsy grins. “Aye, mate, no worries. What do ya say, Harry? We together or not?”

Harry grins back at him warmly. “I'm quite pleased to say that is indeed the case.”

“Thank you, gentlemen,” Tristan replies. “Merlin, it appears I owe you an apology-”

“Eggsy, Harry,” Merlin sighs, wrangling back the call, “I appreciate you taking a moment out of your morning-”

“No problem, mate,” Eggsy breezes.

“Quite alright, my friend,” Harry replies, "I'm glad we could help clear up the matter."

“One last thing,” Merlin replies, “ _About bloody time._ ”

“Have a good day, Merlin,” Harry chuckles, ending the call before smiling back at Eggsy. “I understand if you would have rather kept this information private,” he prefaces, “But I do thank you for making an exception.”

Eggsy blinks back at him. “Oi, Harry, ya think I'm ashamed a' you or somethin'? Christ, I'm bloody fuckin' proud as _fuck_ of you. I'd get up on the fuckin' highest tower and shout it down to everyone that you're my bloody boyfriend if I didn' think you'd mind.”

“ _Boyfriend,_ ” Harry smirks, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, I dunno' what you posh sort call it, but yeah, _boyfriend,_ ” Eggsy replies, trying for confidence and blushing a little. “I mean, thas' what this is, right?”

Harry's smile creeps across his face. “I would like that very much, my dear boy,” he tells him.

“Then why don' you make it official an' come 'round this table and kiss me already?”

Harry pushes out of his seat. “I have a better idea, why don't we take our plates to the sink, and then proceed back upstairs?”

Eggsy can't agree more enthusiastically, and after they clear the table, he pats a sleepy JB on the head. “Finally getting' lucky, your ol' dad is,” he whispers in confidence behind his hand to the pug, giving him a wink.

“ _Darling_ , not in front of the children,” Harry tisks.

And then, just because he can't believe it's all finally _fucking_ happening, once they get back upstairs and close the door to the bedroom, Eggsy can't help but just stand there uselessly, watching Harry slip off his robe like some kind of inexperienced idiot, wracked with nerves and unsure what to do with himself.

“Eggsy?” Harry asks uncertainly, “Last minute reservations?”

“Nah, just admiring the view, love,” Eggsy replies a bit distractedly watching Harry strip off his pyjama top. He realizes this is the first time he's ever seen the other man shirtless and _f_ _uck, for an old bugger he's fit._ Hell, for any bloke really: all solid, lean muscle and well defined chest—his eyes map out the various scars and marks, mementos of his exciting life with eager curiosity, wondering after each story they tell, when finally, Harry clears his throat to retrieve his attention, giving him a strange, disarming smile.

“Come here,” he orders. Eggsy blinks and does as he's told and Harry wraps his arms around him, pulling him in close. “My darling, I can't tell you how long I've waited for this.”

Eggsy sucks in a breath. “Don' have to wait anymore, Harry," he tells him softly.

And then, after another long moment of deliberation, finally, _finally,_ Harry's lips capture his own and the electric intensity of it leaves him breathless. There's nothing shy in it, but there's nothing rushed about it either; Harry takes his time to fully explore Eggsy—his tongue a velvet thing as it dances with his own, tasting him, consuming him until he's left panting and moaning into his mouth and achingly hard against his thigh. Not for a second does Harry release him, instead, he backs Eggsy up until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed, folding him over. Harry follows suit, gracefully toppling him down into the sheets.

He flutters small, worshipful kisses over Eggsy's face, one on each cheek and his nose and between his eyes before returning, laying a kiss on the corner of his mouth before licking his way back between the small open moue of his lips. Then he's kissing the lobe of his ear before sucking it into his mouth, dragging an embarrassing whine from Eggsy's throat before sweeping his attention down his neck, his teeth grazing across Eggsy's throat before finding a particularly sensitive place to latch on to suck and worry at.

Eggsy's a boneless, helpless, moaning thing beneath his talented mouth and fingers, arching up when the man laps over a nipple, grazing his way across his chest and down his abdomen. A silky, wet sweep of his tongue, dipping just inside his navel, sends Eggsy bucking upward, clutching for purchase on Harry's shoulders. “ _You are brilliant,_ ” he hears him say, “ _Wonderful,_ ” Harry whispers, kissing each of his hips as Eggsy squirms beneath him mumbling Harry's name in an incoherent stream of desire. “ _Lovely...”_ he breathes, his fingers slipping under Eggsy's waistband as his mouth hovers mere millimeters over his straining erection—“ _Exquisite,_ ” Harry adulates as he slips down his pyjama bottoms down over his hips, placing a small kiss on the head of the dripping, twitching head of his cock—“ _Perfection,_ ” Harry finally decides, swallowing him whole.

Eggsy bucks off the mattress, clawing at the sheets, feeling desperate tears gather in the corners of his eyes as Harry works him over in his mouth. Glancing down, Eggsy watches Harry in awe as he brings him close to the edge, hollowing his cheeks, lapping over his head and twisting his tongue in heavy swathes along his shaft. Eggsy shoves his fist into his mouth to stifle a shattered moan as his lover's hands take firm, commanding hold of his hips to still him.

“ _Harry,_ ” Eggsy pleads, desperate to fuck up into his mouth, desperate to come as Harry slows his ministrations, finally pulling off of him with a wet _pop._

“ _Fuckin' why'd you stop?_ ” he whimpers, squirming on the bed as Harry's fist wraps tightly around his base to stem the tide before it crashes into shore too soon.  

Harry smiles down at him, his eyes hooded with raw lust. “To do this the right way,” he explains simply before pushing off the bed. Eggsy tries to assist, lifting his hips as Harry pulls his pyjamas off the rest of the way. They bunch at his ankles, tangling around his feet and they both laugh a little as Eggsy desperately tries to kick them the fuck off. After Harry finally manages to free him, he strips out of his own bottoms and Eggsy stares at him in open appreciation. Harry's gorgeous, mouthwatering cock pushes out in front of him—it's thick and a dusky pink, heavy between his firm, pale, glorious thighs and _fuck_ does Eggsy want to take him in his mouth—to taste the drop of his precum glistening on the tip and decimate Harry the way he's decimated him.

And then, Harry is crawling back over him and straddling his hips between his knees for a moment before carefully, gracefully lowering himself on top of him. " _Eggsy,_ " he whispers before he's claiming Eggsy's mouth again and he can feel the press of his cock, smooth and hard and hot against his own. Harry grinds down his hips and Eggsy cants upward. “ _Fuck, Harry, you feel so fuckin' good,_ ” Eggsy groans into his neck, “ _Fuck,_ Harry, _fuck me._ ”

“That...” Harry replies between kissing him, “...can be arranged.”

Harry crawls off of him. “Flip over onto your knees,” he instructs, “Arse up, if you will,” and Eggsy is racing to comply, turning over onto his belly and pushing his arse up in the air, too far gone to care how ridiculously wanton he must look—especially when after a very short delay, he feels the sudden press of an oil slicked finger stroke around his entrance followed shortly by the hot glide of a wet tongue. As Harry dips inward, Eggsy utters out a broken sob. He then proceeds to slip in a finger, stretching around to loosen him, and Eggsy quakes with unbridled lust, his cock leaking onto the sheets. It's been fucking ages since he's had anyone or anything inside him other than his own fingers so he's pretty tight, but Harry manages pretty easily to get a second and then a third digit inside of him.

“ _Yes, Harry,_ ” Eggsy shouts as he feels his lover crook his fingers, grazing over a spot inside of him that sends him bucking nearly off the bed. _Oh, those fucking brilliant fingers._ “ _Fuck me, Harry, please, fuck me, fuck me, fuck—_ ”a stream of expletives rolling out of him as Harry does something particularly inventive with his other hand stroking over his cock.

“ _So much profanity,_ ” Harry chuckles, “That tongue of yours should really be put to better use.”

“Yeah,” Eggsy pants, “Let me suck your cock, Harry, _please._ ”

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” Harry replies less casually than he probably intends, his voice too low and a little wrecked as he lets him up. Eggsy dives forward, taking him whole without any finesse and Harry shudders, groaning audibly as his cock hits the back roof of Eggsy's throat. “ _Fucking marvelous, Eggsy, that clever mouth of yours,_ ” he gasps, clutching Eggsy's shoulders like his life depends on it. “That's my boy, that's it, my _darling_.”

Eggsy loves how fucking talkative he is, shivering in delight every time he sings his name in a chorus between curses and praises. He loves that _he's_ the one getting to take Harry apart like this.

And then, Harry is pushing him off and lunging forward with a desperate, possessive growl to reclaim his mouth. Eggsy can still taste the musky traces of himself on the other man's tongue from before but finds he doesn't mind it, just eager for Harry's kiss.

“Eggsy, my love,” Harry pants, his eyes shuttered and his voice hoarse with arousal, “May I fuck you?”

 _And oh, my God,_ the fact that Harry asks him this way nearly makes him come right on the spot untouched.

“ _Fuck, yes, Harry._ ”

Then in one, impressive move, Harry has his legs up over his head, and is lining up his cock with Eggsy's entrance. He presses inward and Eggsy's eyes press shut; his breath coming in quick, ragged gasps as Harry pushes into him.

“Oh, _Eggsy,_ ” Harry mutters helplessly, his eyes screwed shut, “Yes, _yes,_ my beautiful boy,” he whispers, leaning forward to kiss him as his hand snakes down between them to pump Eggsy's cock in his fist in time with his thrusts.

 _He feels full up_ and every time Harry buries himself inside of him—every time he hits that _perfect_  spot, Eggsy sees stars and feels a burst of pleasure that flares behind his navel and jets up through the roots of him, stem to stern.

“Yes,  _yes, Harry, yes_ _—_ ” Eggsy chants as Harry rides him to the moon—“ _I love you, Harry,_ ” he sobs—and this is all it takes to trigger a shuddering tremble from the man.

His thrusts take on a frantic, staccato pace that lacks any sort of proper rhythm and Eggsy keens, tossing and bucking beneath him.

Shockwaves of pleasure wrack through his body all at once, seizing him in wave after wave of pure, blind bliss and he's spilling over Harry's fist, heavy, hot ropes landing over his chest and Harry in turn, comes with a shout, spending inside of him.

When it's over Harry collapses on top of him and they're both still shaking and panting and trying to recover their breath but nothing matters other than the feeling of Harry all over and inside of him.

“ _I love you, too, my darling boy_ ,” Harry whispers against the shell of his ear like it's a secret just for him.

He slips out of him a minute or two later wiping himself off carelessly on his billion thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets like it doesn't matter a whit, and Eggsy smiles hazily up at him stretching open his arms for a cuddle.

Harry happily complies, slotting in beside him, gathering into Eggsy's hug. He nuzzles his nose into his neck and releases a contented sigh. “I want you to come home, Eggsy,” he tells him. “Move in here with me.”

And Eggsy laughs because _duh, of course he's gonna—_

“Harry, there's no getting rid of me after this,” he grins, “I'm so fuckin' yours you don't even know.”

Harry smiles back at him like he's the most beloved, important thing in the world. “I'm yours, too, my dear boy, for as long as you'll have me.”

“That'll be forever then,” Eggsy replies, leaning in to kiss him again.

And that pretty much seals it.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks all for sticking with it to the end, hope you enjoyed! <3


End file.
